


Ghost in the Machine

by Shousei



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bodice-Ripper, Death, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Historical, POV First Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader-Insert, Shinigami, Trauma, heheh, men in hats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26189296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shousei/pseuds/Shousei
Summary: In which I encounter Life, he meets Death, and we eke out a kind of existence together over tea.
Relationships: Undertaker (Kuroshitsuji)/Reader
Comments: 41
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

Please note BEFORE READING:

!Manga spoilers  
!Trigger warnings include but are not limited to angst, violence, abuse by family members, grief/loss, suicide, PTSD, depression and anxiety  
!Potential for NSFW content

Story notes appear after each chapter.

Chapter One.

I had come to know the smell of earth as an accompaniment to rainy days, or in the spring, as tenant farmers on our estate began to till the soil for new plantings. However, this incarnation of that scent was considerably less innocuous. It was under my nails, in my hair, in the folds of my wrinkled dress. Its menace had expanded itself to the auditory, as small heaps of it rained like thunder on the wood over my head. The sound and the smell of it was all that remained to me in that moment, as all light had disappeared and taken my voice with it.

With each clap of the thunder from overhead, I felt a fine powder of the soil settle down from between small cracks in the wooden planks, onto my skin and the ropes which bound me. I could taste it in my mouth, forced slightly open by the gag which muffled my screams for as long as they’d lasted. It turned my tears into streaks of muddy but silent protest against the end which had come to claim me.

I had always imagined how this might feel; it was not unusual in my case to wonder such macabre thoughts, since they came easily with the whispers that frequently followed me both within my mind and without. In my head, they spoke of who was to be “next,” while in the halls of my family’s house they muttered a thousand suppositions of what sort of creature I am, and how my doting father had no business keeping me there.

Now that it was seemingly my turn, my heart felt squeezed by a mix of confusion as to why I had not received notice of my own impeding fate, the sheer terror of its realization, and the excruciating sorrow of knowing my father had immediately preceded me in death, despite my inability to be there in time to stop the event.

I was raw with grief, weak from struggling and injury. However, I knew that this was not where I was meant to stay, not yet. I, who had couldn’t remember a time when I questioned the arrival of death, felt somehow betrayed by his silence leading up to this moment. Hadn’t we always been honest with one another? I had even thanked him as my mother lay in her bed, finally peaceful after the pain of illness had made the last months of her life unimaginably wretched. I was five years old, and was convinced already that this was how things _were_.

That belief was now at an end.

I had already exhausted my voice and any other source of noise I was afforded, so that all that was left to me was the prayer I repeated over and over in my heart. _Please_ , I thought. _Please, God… Please, Death_. _Please_ … What I begged for in that delirious few moments, I couldn’t convey in words even to them. It remained situated in pure feeling, and in the shaking of my bound hands, and in the terrible void that remained in place of any manifestation of rescue. The idea that I had been forsaken creeped into my bones like winter’s chill, dawning on me in a slow, deliberate way that left my stomach twisting into a new level of panic. Reduced to considering my situation from second to second, I lay there. I cried. I breathed. I was.

Then, suddenly, I was struck by silence. The pounding of earth from above had ceased. I blinked where I lay in the blackness, uncertain of what I hoped to see better from my position. Was it that I had stopped breathing? Had I smothered? Was this what death was…?

I don’t know what I had expected. My feelings shifted from fear to something between shock and devastation. There was nothing, and nothing to explain why. I heard only a dry creaking in my throat, as I yearned to give my despair a form I could understand.

Seconds later, I felt a jolt as the box I was trapped in lifted and floated, a fleeting weightlessness that resolved with a thump! as the box once again came to rest. My mind was blank and I choked on my breath, waiting in horror for what was to come next.

A light creaking and cracking of wood, the nails holding me captive squeaked in protest as they were wrenched out of place. I squinted as dim, dense light seeped in and fell over my eyes. A brief flash of brilliant yellow-green passed through the path of golden lantern light, causing me to gasp. It faded as quickly as it had come, and was replaced by a soft chuckle. Quiet words followed, in a man’s tenor edged with faint creakiness.

“Ah… hello, my dear. Please give me a moment and I’ll have you out of there. Hold still, now—”

I didn’t have time to react, as the coffin’s lid cracked more forcefully, pieces falling in around my arms and legs as it was pulled to the side.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” the voice continued, as errant bits of wood were removed from around me. I lie still, processing, even as cool fingers fluttered over my bonds and I felt them loosen. A hand, pale even in the dimly-lit night and set off with long, black nails, hovered over my vision as the cloth in my mouth disappeared. I moved my mouth slowly, testing its new freedom but feeling too overwhelmed to pursue much else.

Then, after a pause, the hand gently brushed over my forehead and cupped my cheek. “Are you all right? Can you hear me?”

The cool of his palm felt calming, a respite from my ordeal. I flicked my eyes toward the voice and took in the features of a man’s face, hesitantly gazing down at me with eyes of a light color muted by our dark surroundings. He peered from under haphazard bangs of silver, the rest of his long hair cascading forward over his shoulders and swinging gently next to an arrangement of beads and an ashen sash. A dark robe covered a collared tunic, with the starched white of his shirt and cuffs standing in stark contrast to the rest of his person. Later, I would recall with some trepidation the faint scarring that crossed his features.

As it was, I was in the grips of shock and still not certain about my exact situation. This man seemed kind but was the embodiment of shadow. A thought occurred to me, a question that I attempted to answer myself by pressing my newly-freed hand to my chest. The man observed my features as I discovered my own heartbeat, still present, and nearly as rampant as when I’d last taken note of it. I tested my lungs, taking a breath, and then another. I came to the remarkable conclusion at the same moment the man commented upon it, startling me into a recollection of his presence.

“…No, child, you still live.” Slowly, he moved both arms to ease me up to a sitting position, one remaining at my back as I wobbled. “There now…nice and slow, my dear.”

I let my eyes slowly roam over the setting from my new perspective: the man was kneeling next to the coffin, which had somehow been hastily removed from the gaping hole into which it had been lowered. On the ground near him was a shabby top hat with a black crepe mourning train; in the glow of the lantern I could just make out the outlines of a dark, enclosed wagon with black curtains and a horse of ebony, who stood patiently by with only an occasional snort or snuffle. The man himself wore a chain of lockets easily distinguishable as remembrances by their carefully-contained locks of hair and engraved names.

_So that’s who this man is, then_ , I thought. It occurred to me, briefly, that this could not be a more perfect pairing for myself, until the greater truth of the matter fell upon me like a wall of crumbling stone.

_He’s not here to bury me._

If the exclamation from his throat betrayed his surprise at finding me suddenly scrambling out from my prison and into his arms, the embrace I was swiftly bundled into did not. I trembled with relief and dug my nails into the cloth over his chest, desperate to not be pulled back from whence I had escaped. I felt him let a hand gently alight on my head and proceed to slowly pet my tangled hair. Now well and truly awake from my nightmare, I reached higher to wrap my arms around his shoulders and buried my face in his neck. My sobs were silent but for my gasps as I welcomed life back to my body.

_Thank you  
Dear Lord  
Father--  
Thank you  
I’m sorry  
Don’t let go  
Please  
Oh, please  
  
Don’t let me go.  
  
_

His arms then both wrapped me tightly, as though he’d heard me. My body was saying nothing, and yet, how deafening my cries must have been that night.

“Shhh…,” he murmured into my ear before setting a light peck upon it. “I’ve got you.”

\---

Notes:

Welcome.

I have loved this man for a long time (from the pre-eyeballs era!); I don’t know why I’m only just getting around to writing something like this. This is more of his serious nature so far, but he’ll loosen up eventually, so don’t worry! I hope the ultra fluff makes up for it.

Please be aware of the trigger warnings I mentioned. I actually write to work through trauma, and so much of this comes through in my storytelling. Please respect yourself and others, should you recognize themes that have affected you within this work.

I am a stickler for historical accuracy as far as Victorian England is concerned, so you might notice a few details differ from what you see in the canon story.

Please stay tuned; questions and comments are appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Please note BEFORE READING:

!Manga spoilers  
!Trigger warnings include but are not limited to angst, violence, abuse by family members, grief/loss, suicide, PTSD, depression and anxiety  
!Potential for NSFW content

Story notes appear after each chapter.

Chapter Two.

It was not quite sleep that came and went as we traveled through the night, but something like a peace that accompanied a partial awareness of my surroundings. I heard the light squeaking of the horse’s leather harness and the rattle of the cart as it rolled along the path. I felt warmth from the animal below as I rested, arranged demurely sidesaddle as I leaned against the man’s chest.

Each time my consciousness stirred, I reconfirmed the secure sensation of his arm around my back, his other hand occupied with the horse’s reins. I sighed, tightening my fist around the locks of his hair over his chest, my other arm curled in against myself. The firm press of his cheek against my head remained steady except when he dipped his chin, presumably to peer at me. In my state, I was content with no more sound than that of his soft breathing and his heart, and he was mercifully perceptive of that.

At the site of my erstwhile grave, I had calmed to the point where I could loosen my grip on him slightly when he patted my head and sighed, smiling. “Let’s get you someplace more pleasant, dear…shall we?” He reached for his hat and made to stand, carefully pulling me up with him. My body had clearly exhausted its stores of energy by now, however, and I teetered precariously before pitching back towards the ground, one hand frantically reaching back to grab at him.

“Oooops, hold on there…” He gathered me up about my back and knees, and I latched my arms around his shoulders in panic at the sudden motion.

“You’re as shaky as a newborn foal,” he chuckled. “I’m not sure you’d stay steady sitting with me on the cart, but I can drive the horse from his back just as easily.”

He started towards the cart. I held on stiffly as he leaned slightly in front of the lantern. “Just grab that, will you, love?”

I dangled my fingers down to grasp the lantern by its hook; it swung wildly as I attempted to lift it higher. Light and shadow careened over the ground; out of the corner of my eye I saw what appeared to be a gentleman’s leg sprawled out prone in the grass.

I drew in my breath sharply; immediately after I felt my caretaker whirl away from the sight. His voice, dangerously quiet but still soothing, commanded me from above.

“Close your eyes.”

I looked up at his face, full of questions. I thought I glimpsed the same flash of brilliant green I had seen earlier.

“Quickly now! Do not open them until I say.”

This was in stark contrast to his gentle handling of me thus far; alarmed, I jammed my eyes closed and pressed my forehead to his chest. My heart pounded, suddenly conscious of whatever threat he had warned me against. My body swayed gently as he walked, my free arm still holding the lantern.

After a moment, the sound of the horse’s snufflings had become quite close. “All right, you may open your eyes. Hook that onto the carriage just there if you would, my dear.”

I lifted my head, peering at the cart I had seen from a distance earlier. I gingerly set the lantern swinging on its hook before the man carried me to the horse. He led the animal to a boulder along the road and stepped up upon it. “Up we go… hold on tight.” He carefully swung a leg over the horse’s back and settled us into place upon it, holding the reins in his teeth. Another time I would have laughed, with or without sound, but fatigue limited my reaction to mere consideration of how supremely ridiculous this was.

And so, we trundled off along the road, farther and farther away from the churchyard and its horrors.

\---

I had had the sense that I had not traveled terribly far from my family’s estate, but despite the experiences of this evening I was startled to realize my encounter with fate had taken place just outside the more developed limits of London.

The cart finally rumbled to a stop at stables situated in a rather questionable part of town. I hugged onto my savior’s shoulders as he slid us off the horse and handed it over to a stable groom, along with a gold sovereign. I saw him exchange a pointed look with the groom upon doing so, to which the man nodded. He began tending to the horse, and, again placed in charge of the lantern’s keeping, I drifted away as I was carried around to the front of a shabby shop.

Ah, I thought. Here it was. No uncertainty. The sign over the door screamed it in decorative letters and punctuated it with cobwebs.

 _Undertaker_.

The shop was, unsurprisingly, adorned with coffins inside and out, in various stages of completion. As I was helped inside, I noted shelves cluttered with jars, books, and other paraphernalia. Shadows danced wildly off the walls, giving the place an ironic sense of liveliness.

The man—the Undertaker—did not pause in this room, but instead backed us into a door that swung open into a modest living space. The lantern’s light revealed a small stove, with a table, chairs, and other accoutrement of daily survival scattered about on any available surface. There was even a modern bathtub and a WC, something that had only lately arrived at the great house I’d grown up in.

I was carried into a small bedroom, where the Undertaker carefully lowered me to sit on the bed. I was vaguely aware of its softness and of the new smells of the place… there were faint chemical smells mixed with the scent of recent baking.

“Now then,” the Undertaker smiled at me as he swiftly made to remove his hat. His gaze was all but hidden under his hair. “I’d guess you’d like something to drink, first…just a moment.” He stepped back and away towards a wooden dresser, reaching for a pitcher and glass that sat there.

At that moment, my gaze swept over the contents of the room, and came to rest on my own reflection in the looking glass over his shoulder.

I could not breathe.

My hair, my face, my dress full of tears and dirt. Mud streaked my skin, sharing it with bruises and scratches. My boots, marred with earth and scuff marks. My fingernails, black with death and night and terror.

I screamed, but there was no sound.

The Undertaker saw the horror in my reflection and whirled back to look at me, the glass of water he’d poured and the pitcher still in his hands. I vaguely registered the sight of his mouth falling open as I fell off the bed to the floor, frantically pulling first my boots and stockings from my legs before moving on to the buttons of my dress. I’d loosened the bodice of the dress to where I could pull my arms and chest free from it before he grabbed my wrists, careful to not hurt me even as he restricted my violent tantrum.

“…all right,” he breathed. “Please, my dear, you’re going to injure yourself further.” He gently released my wrists and rested one hand against my face. With the other, he plucked a washcloth from where it had fallen during the tussle. He dipped it into the glass of water and slowly began wiping my face, whispering gentle encouragement as he did so.

“Now—” He gathered me up again and stood in front of the looking glass. “Look, there you are. You were there the entire time.”

I gazed upon my own face. It was as he said: I was indeed myself. Nothing that had happened, nothing that had covered me in blackness or enshrouded my heart in fear had changed that. I looked back at his face, slowly letting my fingertips come to rest on his cheekbone. Not sensing any resistance in him, I slowly slid them up and into his hair to lift it from his eyes. I had expected the brilliant, yellow-green gaze that met mine, but not that I would find in it the reassurance I so desperately needed in that moment.

And so, I relaxed into that reassurance, deeply enough that I entrusted him with carrying me to the bathtub I had glimpsed earlier, and with finishing the job I had so clumsily taken upon myself. He said nothing, only hummed softly as he removed the rest of my clothing, my corset, chemise, drawers, and even the ribbons woven into my once-neat updo, all disappearing. He removed all of it, the vestiges of my first life, gently washed it away with soap and water scented with lavender. Wrapped up in his nightshirt and a blanket, I was settled into his lap next to the stove. My body sank into the warmth, grateful, soothed by the feeling of my hair being slowly combed and toweled.

By and by I must have started to nod off. I felt the pleasant vibrations of his hum cease to ripple over his chest, to be replaced by the jostle of quiet laughter. My body, clean but exhausted, did not resist being returned to the bed which had marked the start of this sequence. I nuzzled into his hand as he placed me into the bedding, relishing its comforts.

However, the Undertaker withdrew his hand, and patted my hair before picking up the bedside lamp and turning to leave. The light bounced around him, moving away with him as he took a step towards the door. The split-second in which the shadows returned to surround me dragged on for an eternity, before a pang of fear ran through my body like a bolt of lightning and newly-honed instinct sent me out of bed and back to his side. I groped at his clothing in the brief chance my inertia had afforded me before sliding down his torso towards the floor.

“!” He looped his arm around my ribs before I’d reached his knees and hoisted me back against him. “Oh dear… I had wondered if this would happen. No matter, though...I am your servant, my girl.”

He helped me climb back into bed. Shedding his tunic and footwear, he pulled something shiny from his pocket and set it on the nightstand. “That is yours… it will be safe there, with mine.” He piled the chain of remembrances next to whatever it was of my possessions he had thought to preserve. “Now, come here, if that’s what it will take.”

He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and crawled in next to me while settling the bedding around the two of us. I wriggled under his arm to nestle against him, while what haunted me was forced to remain outside the circle of his embrace. His chest rose and fell in a contented sigh. “This could be worse… it’s sometimes a bit cold in my spare sleeping accommodations.”

I barely registered what he had said. My eyes had fluttered open once briefly to try and inspect the bedside table, but I was losing to the building warmth of him next to me. I chose to give into it, accepting his offer of respite from what had transpired in the night. I established my lifeline, curling my fingers into his hair. I felt his lips alight in mine, mingled with the percussion of a quiet chuckle.

“Sleep well, Milady.”

\---  
Notes:

One example of historical inaccuracies in Kuroshitsuji: Men and their hats. A man would remove his hat upon entering any structure and would be remiss being outside without one. I can deal with a fair amount for this series—especially in light of all the delightful impropriety happening here—but this one… guh. Sorry.

The “Milady” has meaning. He knows. You’ll see.

Stay tuned.


	3. Interlude in a graveyard.

ԅ(¯﹃¯ԅ) ԅ(¯﹃¯ԅ) ԅ(¯﹃¯ԅ)

"What do you _mean_ , you 'don't know where she went?!'"

The subordinate of the two beings cringed under her boss' icy incredulity, not entirely hating it. Flustered, she tossed her ruby-red hair over her shoulder and reached for the arm of the other.

"Willllllliammm—" she cooed. "Does this mean you'll need to"—She batted his eyelashes over her red spectacles—" _punish_ me?"

The indifferent recipient of these attentions sighed, closing his eyes and raking a gloved hand through his dark, neatly-combed locks. He opened his eyes again and turned a glare of cool, chartreuse exasperation onto his partner. "Sutcliffe, how many times do I need to remind you of what constitutes proper behavior while on the job? You're wrinkling my suit."

The redhead sulked and released her hold on her target. "Anyway, she _is_ here, or—she _was_ here—but—"

William maneuvered, a flash of metal as he deftly adjusted his glasses on his nose. The blades of a tree pruner replaced his fingertips in completing the task. "Grell...you know as well as I do that a body only serves as the residence of the soul who inhabits it. As such, she is no longer present."

He indicated the grave they stood next to, standing open and unfilled. Gaping darkness mirrored the night that surrounded them, although the duo's eyes—both of a striking, phosphorescent yellow-green—counteracted the lack of daylight. Splintered wood lay scattered on the ground, forming a halo of sorts around the coffin that remained where it had fallen. Grell kneeled next to the coffin, setting down the gilded crimson chainsaw she carried. She handled a handful of the long locks of its occupant as her whines filled the graveyard. "Ah, such a waste! When I read her biography, I knew that I would like her, with both of us being such sweet, misunderstood young—GACKK!"

William had grabbed her by the lapels of her ill-fitting red trench coat and yanked her back to her feet. "Leave her be...from the look of the place, this was rather an untraditional burial, but our boys will be here to make sure she's properly seen to." He opened a small book bound in red leather. "You were able to get the others?"

"They were terribly boring, common blokes who deserved what they got." Grell folded her arms in a huff. "As you can see, I collected them and closed their records as neat and tidy as you please, despite the irregularities with their time stamps."

William's fingers passed over the notes next to each man's name, noting their date and time of birth as well as death. For each, corrections in the timing of their deaths had appeared in red ink. "Even so, these adjustments are not our doing. The only way this happens is if a party outside the world of mortals interferes." He snapped the book shut. "I think we have an idea of whom that party could be."

Grell clasped her head in her hands, melodramatically distraught. "AhHhhHhhHh, I could have met him again! Every chance for a proper date seems to go up in smoke because of timing," she moaned.

"You may yet get your chance; we can't leave this undone." Will tossed the book back to Grell. "Even if she _is_ dead, she can't roam unaccounted for, especially considering the circumstances." He gazed down at the woman in the coffin, frowning. "Nobility couldn't guarantee her or her parents' security; this was how it was to be for her. However, we have been preparing to welcome her for some time now; her talents are sorely needed to keep up with demand. The population isn't getting any smaller."

Grell opened the notebook to her page. "I was going to take her to tea and find out who made her gowns," she sniffled. "But, although her time of death moved up by a few hours along with these poor slobs here, how did she die? Their deaths were years early, but hers was going to occur tonight anyway; I just don't understand how she died while I was still working my way over here." She stabbed at the book with a gloved finger. The original entry in black ink read _Death, elective, by suffocation secondary to live burial_. "This is exactly how it happened!"

"I had been wondering that too." Will was kicking at shards of wood at the periphery of the grave. "But not anymore. Look at that." He gestured across the graveyard, past a staggered row of large, engraved stones. Several large, splintered panels of wood lay broken and discarded on the grass some distance from the open plot. "That's it...that's how she died."

"Will," Grell rolled her eyes and leaned on her chainsaw, having retrieved it from the grass. "Your partner is too sexy for these damned riddles of yours; save them for Othell—OW!!" William had used his pruner to knock Grell's chainsaw off balance, sending its owner to fall on her face with an undignified thunk. She screeched with displeasure. "My FACE! Will, you shouldn't show such brutality towards ladies!"

"I don't." Will coughed and adjusted his glasses again. "As I was saying, she did die from a lack of air, from being buried alive in a coffin. However—" he walked to where the woman lay and rested a hand on the edge of the coffin. "This was not the coffin she was going to die in."

Grell blinked in confusion. "Then, the wood over there...was the actual coffin?"

"See? You can do it if you try. Yes, I think so, and I believe it was likely somewhat larger than this one is."

"Why? What difference does that make?"

"The difference," Will stood again, snatching the red book back to scribble a few notes into it. "Is that a bigger coffin means she would be buried with more air to start with. She's very snug in this one; how do you think that turned out for her oxygen supply?"

Grell puzzled over his words for a brief second before gasping, with a slap of her fist in his palm. "She ran out of air a few hours before she was supposed to because someone swapped out the coffins!"

"My goodness, Sutcliffe, I'm going to have to print you a certificate when we are back at headquarters."

"Someone destroyed the real one and left this one here as a substitute for what they were going to put her in..." Grell pouted in thought, her manicured brows knitting with concentration. "And if that change was reflected only in the adjustments in red ink..."

"Indeed." William nodded. "I don't suppose you can think of any non-humans with a rebellious streak and free access to coffins?"

The realization was crashing down over his partner like a tidal wave. "Ahhhh," she sighed, desolate. "This might almost...ALMOST...make me reconsider my love of bad boys."

ԅ(¯﹃¯ԅ) ԅ(¯﹃¯ԅ) ԅ(¯﹃¯ԅ)

I actually researched causes of death for this so I hope you appreciate it, lol. I hope no one checks my browser history.

Updates are likely going to slow down a bit after this due to my workload at my _paying_ job. Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

(/ε＼*) (/ε＼*) (/ε＼*)

Chapter Four.

It was a whisper of touch and the faint aroma of Darjeeling that finally woke me. I gradually drifted away from the blackness, orienting to the gray light filtering in through the bedroom window. I shifted under the bedclothes, squinting to make out the edge of the building behind the shop from where I lay, until a soft voice forced me to shift my attention to the edge of the bed.

“Goodness, there you are.” The man—the Undertaker—sat on the bed’s edge, balancing a steaming teacup on its saucer. The back of his free hand passed over my eye, moving to stroke along my cheekbone once again. He set the teacup down on the bedside table and gently pulled me to a sitting position. “You were out a good two days. Come now and drink this; we must get your strength back.”

I blinked, still somewhat trapped in the fog of awakening. Dutifully, I sipped at the tea he handed me while he smoothed his hand over my hair. Two days? There was no doubt I’d be in the grips of a furious case of bedhead by now. My incredulity over anything else had gone with the events of late.

 _Papa_.

The memory clamped onto my heart like a vise. I paused, holding the teacup between trembling palms halfway to my mouth, tears stinging my eyes and flowing over my cheeks before wetting the linen in my lap. I nearly dropped the cup, covering my mouth with one hand in a bid to force my sobs back to their source, but my efforts couldn’t stop them from fighting their way out. They carried my breath and my silence out in the violence of air expelled from lungs desperate to be rid of such heavy sorrow.

“Ah…” He had taken the cup and set it down before gathering me up against him. He said nothing, only wrapped myself and my memory tightly in his arms, as he pressed his lips to my crown.

When my mother died, there had been so many words from others that passed—within society—as tidings of support. They filled the silence with emptiness. I wondered at this paradox in the years after, and even now, when silent company and simple touch finally proved to be what could add a stitch or two at a time to the tear in my heart. After noticing I had taken my customary handful of his silver hair for security, I reflected that his were the actions of someone who recognized the needs created by grief.

But wasn’t this a given for an undertaker? Grief was his stock-in-trade.

My sobs had dissolved away in favor of this quiet introspection before I noticed that while he sat here with me, completely dressed save for his hat and overcoat, I remained in the men’s cotton nightshirt he had lent me. I stiffened and sat up away from him, pulling the bedclothes up to my chin and crimson with embarrassment. I recalled that he had seen everything before when assisting me and would be, as someone working with corpses, familiar with such sights, but with renewed strength and the light of day my painfully-Victorian sensibilities were roaring back to life. He laughed brightly, easily reading my thoughts.

“Not to worry, my dear; I have something for you.”

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Boxes lay strewn about the room, their lids haphazardly tipped off or to the side. Miles of fabrics and trims, made up into a small, neat wardrobe of items. I sat in the middle of it all, blanketed in a day dress of softest dove gray. I touched the cord trim and silken buttons of its bodice, reverently.

“I knew you wouldn’t want what I found you in, so it was no matter to bring those things to a dressmaker for sizing.” The Undertaker sipped from his own teacup, delighting at my pleasure. “I told them I was purchasing myself a trousseau, hahaha!”

I snorted. It must have been something—he had asked for everything I would need. In the wreckage of the room were two dresses, a white, square-neck apron, a black hat styled with blue and teal roses, handkerchiefs, black kid gloves, black leather boots with low heels, and a small, beaded drawstring handbag. To my chagrin, he had also acquired petticoats, a bustle cushion, corset, sets of chemises, camisoles, and drawers, altogether forming a mountain of white cotton and satin ribbon trim. Black wool stockings with garters and a woolen shawl rounded out the collection. It must have cost him a fortune.

“There’s one more dress and a wool cloak coming, too.” He set down his teacup and rose. “Come, let’s get you dressed.”

I briefly froze, slightly panicked at his suggestion. I needed to remind myself, again, that this was nothing new for him, not to mention that there was no lady’s maid in this place to help me.

“Don’t worry, little one,” he chuckled, reading my face. “My greatest joy in assisting you with this task lies in the fact that you—unlike my usual visitors—can appreciate my conversation.”

Tactfully, he returned our teacups to the kitchen while I swapped the nightshirt for the chemise and drawers. Next, the stockings, garters and boots. I fastened the corset around myself and wriggled the petticoat over it, hoping to camouflage my legs before he returned. I started as the corset lacing tightened lightly from behind; I had not heard him return and pick up the laces.

He murmured near my ears, warm air from his breath dusting them both pink. “Just a moment…let’s not overdo this, though, with you not quite well yet.” I felt his fingers gently pull at the lacing along the corset’s length until it hugged me firmly but not constrictively over my ribs. He tied it off in the middle, pulling the cords into a long bow. “There.”

I nodded crisply, grabbing a camisole and buttoning it over myself. He remained behind my field of view, easing the dress skirt over my arms and waist before finishing with the bodice. I buttoned it to my throat and smoothed the fabric under my palms. It fit perfectly.

The Undertaker, still eager to demonstrate his talents, had combed out my hair (a mess, as I’d suspected), braided it back and pinned the entire affair into a twist. “One more thing,” he smiled, reaching for the bedside table.

I’d nearly forgotten. The flash of gold he’d laid to rest there alongside me was familiar again to me now: A single, small locket, with an engraved name known to my fingertips as well as my eyes for all the times I’d run them both over it. It carried an aging photograph as it swung from its chain, given to me years ago in another time of loss.

I warmed it with my hand as the Undertaker fastened it around my neck. Lifting it to my eyes, I realized that it had been polished clean; the dirt and blackness of that horrible night was nowhere to be seen. My eyes widened in appreciation, my heart warming at the care with which my most precious possession had been afforded.

I whirled to face him, startling him in my haste. Curling my fingertips into his tunic, I pulled him close enough for my lips to reach his ear.

“Thank you,” I whispered. Forgetting myself in my gratitude, I took advantage of the proximity to eradicate all distance completely with a kiss on his cheek. Too late to censor myself, I released him and stepped back, at once giddy and regretful.

The man, for his part, was doing well to not appear flustered. In the short time I’d known him, he had seemed to have a comment or answer for all things. Not so for this: Unconsciously, I had registered a hitch in his breathing followed by stark silence upon receiving my attack. Now, he stood stock still with his hand to his cheek, his eyes like large, chartreuse dinner plates beneath his shaggy bangs. Seconds passed like millennia as he seemingly pulled himself together.

“I—you are most welcome, I’m sure, my—er,” he coughed before stepping back towards me and guiding me towards the looking glass. “You should take a look; you really clean up beautifully.”

Grateful for a reason to move on from what had just transpired, I narrowed my eyes at myself, trying to take in my appearance. I took a step closer to the glass, then another, until I was within an arm’s length.

Why was it so difficult to see clearly? Had something happened to my eyes the other night? I rubbed them on my fists and opened them again, but even when I took a step back again the blurriness remained. I looked over my shoulder at the Undertaker; his smile had straightened into a neutral pressing of his lips as he watched me. Something about his lack of outright confusion bothered me.

I shook my head at him. _I can’t see_.

Furthermore…

I turned back to the looking glass, coming almost nose to nose with myself to be sure. It was not an illusion; the eyes that looked back at me from my reflection matched the pair now peering over my shoulder.

 _Were my eyes always that color_ …?

(/ε＼*) (/ε＼*) (/ε＼*)

A **trousseau** was a collection of clothing, linens, etc. that a woman would gather in preparation for marriage. UT is certainly joking about himself (not a young woman of marriageable age) needing one.

This chapter is clothing prons (to me, anyway). Thank you for indulging my lust for ruffles.


	5. Chapter 5

!Trigger warnings this chapter: Violence, mild profanity  
!Lots of fluffy giggles and hmm maybe not-so-giggly fluff  
!Not really NSFW but kinda Awkward FW?  
!Do what you want tho

（´・｀ ）♡ （´・｀ ）♡（´・｀ ）♡  
  


Chapter Five.

That afternoon, we found ourselves standing outside of a local optometrist’s shop. I peered at the Undertaker from under the brim of my hat; his features were still sharp enough at this distance for me to observe his face. However, this distance was not much to speak of, as it was due to him insisting on holding my hand the entire walk to the shop.

He gently squeezed my gloved hand, its warmth permeating the kid leather. “Don’t worry; it’ll be fine.”

I nodded, swallowing. I had nothing else to do but trust him, as I had had to since this adventure began. My only consolation, as I discovered my eyes newly ablaze with a furious, glowing chartreuse, was that my protector had experienced this discovery himself.

Staring in the looking glass, I had panicked. Tentatively, I pulled one eyelid slightly upwards, opened my eyes as wide as possible, and scrunched them closed with the expectation that when I opened them again, my own eye color and eyesight would have woken up from this strange dream and reinstated themselves.

This did not come to pass. Confused, I found myself tearing up, suddenly frightened to look at myself or anything else. I sank down in front of the looking glass, gathering fistfuls of my skirts in a tight, desperate grip, my chin tucked into my chest in an effort to hide my face and my fear.

The Undertaker, seemingly infinite in patience, had read my reaction, and within seconds of my meltdown I found myself tidily snugged into his lap in front of the looking glass. He had sat cross-legged on the floor behind me, pulling me against him. My sense of this breach of propriety was as dysfunctional as it had been while I’d been coming to terms with my new situation; I didn’t protest at his arms as they crossed over my own.

His soft whisper was at my ear. “I’m afraid it’s that you and I, being together, now share an affliction of the eyes; I might explain it as the price of me saving you.” He leaned to one side, slipping a finger under my chin to lift it to look at him. “I’m sorry it’s like this, but I can tell you there is an easy fix for it.”

I looked at his eyes, twins to my own. Was this a symptom of a contagious illness? I’d learned about such things before, sneaking into my father’s study to read, but hadn’t come across anything like this. Infused with curiosity and fueled by anxiety, I shifted suddenly to sit facing him, taking his face in my hands as I sought answers. He jumped slightly; it seemed not all of my whims today were those he expected.

Despite this, he remained where he was, facilitating my explorations. I felt his cheeks warm slightly under my palms as I studied his gaze. Other than the color, his own eyes seemed to have remained unchanged; was there no other effect besides the change in vision? Could he even see me as well as I’d assumed he could?

There were other things, though. My fingertips brushed the cold metal piercing the flesh of his ears; noting that as the beginning of his more unusual features, I was drawn to the fading trail of scars that meandered across his nose and cheekbones. The pad of one finger—mine, I was surprised to note—brushed lightly along this trail, losing it at the other side of his face and picking it up anew on the notch of his Adam’s apple. Every inch of marked flesh was a story beyond what I’d experienced; I both yearned and feared to know them all.

“…what happened to you?” My whisper was thunder in the silent tension of the moment.

His mouth opened slightly before he shut it, but he couldn’t hide a fleeting look of desperation that flickered over his countenance. His brow furrowed slightly before he broke my grip on him, reaching to cup my face in the same way I had held his. Drawing our foreheads together, he briefly raised his lashes to dive into my own startled gaze, offering me a glance at vulnerability I had not yet seen in him. It was not entirely unfamiliar to me, having seen it in myself in the days and years prior to this moment.

“My brave girl,” he murmured, stroking his thumb over my cheekbone. “That you’d ask about such trivial things while mired in terror over your own situation.”

Something about what he said struck me, jabbing at hurt I had been trying to keep at bay. I drew in a breath, surprised to feel a sonorous quality in the welling of emotion in my throat. I let it spill over into the tiny space between us.

“But…I’m no one’s girl now, am I.”

The Undertaker’s breath hitched slightly at the sound of my voice, despite the unpleasant hoarseness that remained in it. The question was not a question, but after briefly considering it he decided to answer it anyway.

He let his eyes fall closed and crossed the inches that remained between us, gently pressing his lips to mine. I froze, pulled in and trapped by the warmth in his kiss; he gently offered me several soft pecks in addition to that one, peeking under his lashes to gauge my reception of his experimentation. I felt a rush of excitement and embarrassment; my fingers grasped onto his shoulders in an effort to keep my emotions from being scrambled entirely.

He pulled back from my face suddenly, his look of warm satisfaction being slowly overtaken by concern. “…forgive me…did I…had you ever…?” He seemed to struggle with the revelation.

He wasn’t wrong, however. If only my family had known that my first kiss would be with the man who might’ve arranged my funeral.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

The situation rapidly devolved after that, with both of us untangling ourselves from each other, me struggling to cool down my face, and him busying himself with the provision of tea and bread with honey (“to soothe that voice,” he insisted).

I squinted at him and around the kitchen as I chewed. “Are you having trouble seeing, too?”

He grinned, stirring more honey into my tea. “I’ve adjusted, but I wouldn’t force that choice on you, least of all when you’re not used to it.”

And so, it was out through the front door and through the dingy streets to the optometrist’s shop; when we went in, the man at the counter invited me to sit for him so he could examine my eyes.

“Remarkable!” he said, peering at me through a set of round clinical lenses. “I’ve never seen such unusual eyes before; does it run in your family?”

I winced, briefly looking aside at the Undertaker. He had seated himself next to me but had positioned himself to have a view of the door. He patted my hand, his own eyes now hidden again under his bangs. “You might say that,” I muttered.

I was fitted for a pair of silver, wire-rimmed glasses; they were shaped into gently-rounded rectangles that balanced well with my features. The lenses had to be cut and would take longer.

“Would you make them with a bit of a blue tint to them, possibly?” The Undertaker stood up at my side and leaned over to examine the empty frames.

“Yes, of course,” the optometrist replied, a bit taken aback at the sudden request. I myself was surprised at the unplanned customization of what was otherwise to my preference.

I was about to ask him why when it happened.

A cold rush of air snaked around my neck and over my face. I felt the caress of whispers I hadn’t heard since before the incident in the cemetery; an unseen voice, heard only by me, breathed words I dreaded to hear into my soul.

I stiffened, my body clumsily grabbing at anything within reach that might be something to write with. The Undertaker was instantly alarmed, and put his hands on my shoulders. He watched guardedly as I snatched the sheet of clinical notes the optometrist was making and scribbled something on it.

Then, it was over. I felt warmth return and my body relaxed. The Undertaker reached over me to look at what I’d written before I’d seen it, swiftly tearing the corner with my writing off from the page. He slid the tattered page back to the shocked optometrist, smiling sheepishly. “I’m sorry; my wife sometimes needs to write things down or she’ll forget.”

His wife?! I looked at him sharply, which made him chuckle. I couldn’t deny that that was a useful explanation of our connection in situations like this, however.

My slight irritation with the embarrassment of it was overtaken soon enough with weariness; I had experienced something I had hoped to escape for good, and I was discouraged to find this time had been somewhat more intense than I had previously experienced. I felt concerned that I’d not had time to review what I’d written, as I typically wasn’t aware of it in the moment.

My “husband” had folded the scrap of paper and tucked it into his pocket. “When would they be ready, then?” he asked.

The optometrist grumbled, scowling at his mangled data sheet. “You can pick them up in a couple of hours, sir; I have time to cut the lenses now.”

“Very well. Come along, my dear.” I thanked the optometrist and exited behind him.

He popped his hat on his head and held out his arm. “To the chemist. Let’s get you something to prop you up and see to that throat.” He peered at me as I wordlessly clasped his arm, still a bit wobbly. “Are you all right?”

“I think so…those spells hit me sometimes.” I wondered that—similar to the changes in my eyes—that he didn’t seem overly surprised by my actions in the optometrist’s shop. I then recalled the tinted lenses he’d asked for.

“Why did you ask for the lenses to be blue?” I looked up at him, trying to peek under his bangs.

“Ah, yes.” He patted my hand as I held his arm. “The color should quiet down the brilliance of your eyes for you until you’re comfortable with them; others won’t be so quick to notice them.”

“I see…” I sensed something was missing in that explanation. I could understand that I might indeed be nervous about others staring; even now I was ducking my head when another person drew near, avoiding their scrutiny. Something else was there, however; it seemed like he wanted me to hide them for another reason. Maybe this was related to the more protective aura he had assumed while we were out?

Still. Spectacles? They alone were one thing, but now they’d not be of the clear glass that might present as generally unobtrusive to the features of the face. I peered closely at my reflection as we peeked into a store window, frowning as I tried out mock spectacles made of my thumbs and pointer fingers.

The Undertaker burst out laughing. “Oh dear, you’re not looking forward to them, are you?”

I sighed. “I’ll be able to see, of course, and I’m grateful you’re providing me with spectacles, but…” I stuck my tongue out at myself. “—There isn’t much favorable in what I already have to work with.”

He caught my chin in his fingertips, steering my face towards him.

“Pretty.”

He leaned in to plant a quick smooch on my nose, flustering me into protests. He giggled his creaky giggle, clearly over his own embarrassment from earlier. “You’re pretty. Say it!” He lunged at me again, managing to kiss my cheek before I pushed his face away with both hands. He continued to pepper my palms with light kisses as I tried to hide myself from public view behind him.

“Ack! All right, I’m pretty, now stop doing that here!”

He cackled with delight and started to settle down again, brushing his fingers over my face as I pouted. “Good girl. Let’s go.”

I was not a good girl—not by Victorian standards and certainly not these past few days. Not to be without my revenge, I snatched his hat from his head and scurried down the street with it. He burst out laughing again, but this time I caught an edge of something harder in his mirth. He hurried to catch up with me and took my hand firmly in his, his hat in my fist all but forgotten.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

We returned from our errand and a short stroll, a small supply of medicinal powders sorted in small packets within my handbag. The Undertaker had maintained his closeness; it was starting to seem that his insistence on keeping one hand or arm on my person at all times was more related to protection from something than from anything born of our encounters in the morning. I found I didn’t mind either way.

The optometrist had mellowed somewhat from his earlier annoyance; it was clear that the numbers he’d written on the crumpled paper would still lead to a completed sale. The spectacles, when finally adjusted to fit my ears, shaded my world in a pale aqua that I found surprisingly calming. I turned every which way, gazing in wonder at the crispness of details farther from me than my elbow. “Pretty,” the Undertaker whispered into my ear, sending butterflies fluttering through my stomach.

My cheeks burned as he paid the optometrist and we made our way out the door. “A job well-done,” he said. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yes.” I squeezed his hand. “Thank you for this.”

“Not at all…we have things to discuss but—” he glanced around. “Not now. Let’s first go h—”

“Sir!” cried the optometrist. He was hurrying out his door to chase after us. “You forgot the case for your spectacles!”

It happened in the span of several seconds, in the time to take a breath. My breath stopped when I saw the carriage barrel around the corner, the driver unable to regain control of the pair of horses who had spooked at something and were now clamoring in a panic. I knew what was happening before the rest of the street had time to register it; I screamed, my last futile effort to prevent it from happening. I never saw it, as I was quickly squeezed into a cocoon of black cloth and silver hair and shielded from the sight. The sounds could not be quieted; I heard others reacting with screams like my own and shouts of horror. I heard the sobs of others over my own.

“Dammit,” I heard the Undertaker curse, his voice taking on the darkest tone I’d heard. He squeezed me tighter, stroking my hair.

I halfheartedly fumbled for his coat pocket, where I knew the scrap of paper was. I don’t know why I had to see it again, for I already knew the name, date, and cause of death I had written on it.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

So yeahhhhhhhhhh this is a very heavy chapter. I hope you remembered to buckle up.

I have more to say regarding the very scary experience we’re having here; I need to expand more on our heroine’s background in the story first.

A historical note: You could get tinted lenses in your spectacles in the 1800s; it was basically the same idea as wearing sunglasses (to cut down on bright light).

NOW WE COME TO SOMETHING I FIND INTERESTING. While thinking about Shinigami eyeballs for this chapter (a lot) I noticed something: In the canon, Grell is wearing glasses and showing her eyes in a _muted_ shade of Reaper Green while she is acting as Madam Red’s terribly unskilled butler. Meanwhile, Undertaker _hides_ his eyes entirely and avoids glasses to evade discovery. Why couldn’t he just do what Grell did? IDEK man. I feel denied some cute meganetaker moments. Thoughts?

As always, thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Please note BEFORE READING:  
!More spoilers for Book of Atlantic and after  
!Here they come  
!Grell is fabulous  


Chapter Six.

It seemed as though we were standing on the sidewalk opposite the optometrist’s shop for far longer than the few seconds we spent there, the Undertaker holding me as I stood there, frozen in the horror of what felt like my own creation. I dug my trembling fingertips into his overcoat, unable to block out the sounds of the public reacting to the accident.

In the midst of my shock, I noted a sharp note of tension flicker through his body. He turned slightly, looking back over his shoulder, just as I heard a snap in the air around us; what appeared to be an unusually-long tool for pruning trees had whizzed just over his shoulder, its shears scraping the wall behind us before flying back towards its source. The Undertaker grunted, pulling my head close to shield me from the onslaught.

“So here you are.” A male voice, smooth baritone blended with irritation, accompanied the appearance of the metal shears. “As I had expected. Of course, you’ve put us behind schedule, which is not appreciated.”

The Undertaker wordlessly threw his arm around my ribs, clamping onto me firmly enough to knock the wind out of my lungs. I was about to exclaim when he hissed a command into my ear.

“ _Jump_.”

I had no time to question him or even cause my own limbs to react to this, however, as I felt him bend his legs slightly before launching himself clear off the pavement and into the air. I was carried with him, too panicked to even squeak; I hugged tightly around his neck in a desperate bid to avoid falling. Strangely, though, I realized I did not feel as swift a pull from the Earth as I’d expected from previous encounters with gravity.

We alighted on the roof of the three-story building containing the optometrist’s shop, back across the street from where we’d started. I glimpsed the owner of the tree pruner standing on…a lamppost(?!) below us. He was tidily dressed in a black suit with white shirt and necktie, black gloves and spectacles; his short, dark hair was neatly pomaded. My brain was attempting to process how he was able to balance on top of the lamppost when a larger thunderbolt befell me, courtesy of my newly-sharpened vision.

Chartreuse eyes. The same as mine, and the Undertaker’s. They flashed with determination behind his spectacles, which he absentmindedly adjusted on his nose with the tree pruner.

“I knew this wouldn’t be easy. Sutcliffe, get on with it!”

“Willllliammm!” Another male voice, sweetly lilting with feminine affectation, echoed from down on the street. “I’m almost finished, darling; don’t get excited—or do; either works for me!” I heard an unholy mechanical roaring, the sound of a tiny but beastly motor testing its limits.

My struggle between terror and curiosity in the face of such wild events was shifting rapidly in the direction of what usually got me into trouble. I leaned from the Undertaker’s grasp a little to peer over the edge of the building. He had been keenly watching the goings-on, seeming to calculate based on the actions of these new arrivals, and I wondered what he saw.

“No, no, don’t—” he tried to pull my face back away from the edge, but I caught sight of the scene on the street and momentarily pushed against him to fill in the details with my own eyes.

“Steven Matthew Coles, August 3rd, 1847 to November 15th, 1889. Additional note: Soul record updated from two sources, generated by Dispatch and—” The feminine voice rang up the side of the building. “—you, my lovely lady!”

His words reached me but I could not yet fully comprehend their meaning. My attention was on the strange tableau laid out below: The poor optometrist lay in the street, the carriage and horses off to the side and crowds milling around in the aftermath. Neither they nor the police officer who had arrived seemed to notice the presence of the owner of the voice who called to me.

He was a splash of red in the cold gray of the London street, wild red hair cascading down his back, his red coat accenting the cheeky, almost cheerful tone of his personality. He too, wore glasses over eyes that marked him as another being of some connection to the Undertaker and myself. He stood over the body of the optometrist, holding a strange machine which was no doubt the owner of the monstrous noises I’d heard before. Strangest of all, I saw a soft glow around the body, with what appeared to be flowing lengths of ribbon undulating outward from and around it.

These observations passed in a second’s time; I was pulled back by the Undertaker.

“You need to get away from here, now,” he almost barked, his grip on my arms squeezing briefly tighter. “Do you remember the building a few blocks away, where the chemist was?”

“Yes, but—” How would I get down to the street?

“Good. You will be able to get there from the rooftops; just jump as we did before.”

 _What_? Surely, he was kidding! My eyes widened as I stammered incredulity at him. He only returned it with a strained smile, and handed me his hat. “Hold onto this for me, pretty.” I automatically clutched it by the brim as he pushed it into my hand.

“DARLIIIINNNNNG, I’M COMING UP!” I heard the man (was he a she?) called Grell exclaim just as he-or-she bounced over the edge of the rooftop, landing on one heeled boot in a flash of crimson.

“Sutcliffe, be more respectful of her rank, if you please.” I heard the other attacker—‘William’, was it?—grumble from our other side. He, too, had popped up to the roof, making the leap from the lamppost to here just as easily as the other man.

The Undertaker grabbed my face in his palms, connecting the now-unhidden desperation in his eyes with mine. “Please, my good girl, trust me.” He hesitated for a millisecond before darting close to brush my lips with his.

“It’ll be all right. GO!”

The way he pushed me away from himself was in stark contrast to how he’d held me under his wing throughout our time together. I felt the urgency in that action, and fought my fright to honor his concern for me. He had turned from me to face the two interlopers; his brief lapse in judgement while urging me away had not gone unnoticed.

“My, my!” Grell pressed a gloved palm to her—assuredly, this being was the embodiment of a “her”—cheek in what appeared to be amused delight. “The Deserter and the Duchess of Chelmsford! What a romantic development,” she squealed.

I was startled to hear myself called out. How did they know…?

“Sutcliffe! Enough of that; he’s going to—” William did not finish his warning.

The Undertaker had drawn himself up taller as he approached them. He reached into the back of his coat collar to grasp and pull out what appeared to be a long wooden slat painted with East Asian writing of some sort. The wood glowed with the same eerie green of our eyes, before swiftly morphing into a horrendously-large scythe, bearing a skull and bones and gleaming wickedly in silver. His back to me, he raised it above himself, his overcoat and hair thrashing about his body in the rooftop winds. He was a specter against the blackening sky, an embodiment of darkness and menace. I had thought I’d seen Hell, but this was the purest vision of it I’d ever encountered.

I turned, and ran at the edge of the building, giving myself over to the air and the night.

·• —– ٠ ☽ ٠ —– •·

Wheeeeeee!

If you find you’re confused by the identity of our MC, we’re only just being formally introduced and there are secrets to let out yet. Just enjoy the ride.

I don’t think I’m quite done writing this weekend but I’m ending this chapter here, as it seems a good place to insert a pause. I’ll likely continue to work through these next few scenes through Sunday and Monday (as it’s been fun as hell to write) but there’s always the chance that Life will delay me actually publishing them. _-_ Thank you for reading, as always!


	7. Chapter 7

!Please note BEFORE READING:  
!Trigger warnings for death/loss  
!Physical restraint (non-sexual)  
!Extreme emotional distress

Chapter Seven.

I had had many experiences in my lifetime which I had considered rather unnatural, but the pace at which they greeted me now was unprecedented.

Behind me, three beings faced off, two against one, all of them performing feats I never expected from humans as I had known them. My erstwhile savior and protector was among them. As the intimidating vision of him drawing up his scythe in a green-tinted halo burned itself into my core, I faced another new experience in willing myself to leave the confines of the roof’s edge. Before I could recall that it was he who had commanded me to hurl myself into the winds, I had run at the ledge, my skirts gathered in one fist and his hat still clutched in the other. My boot touched upon the last bit of stone between myself and the sky before I pushed myself up and out with my legs, aiming for the next building and closing my eyes. The breeze rushed over the skin of my face, its force contrasting with the breathtaking weightlessness I felt as I disconnected from the Earth.

I did not fall.

Not in the way I’d expected, at least, for my landing was less than graceful. The next rooftop came upon me hard and fast, and I skidded upon landing on one foot before crumpling forward onto my hands. My legs were scraped along the stones as I completed my forward momentum; I noticed my gloves and stockings torn, my skin bleeding as I staggered to my feet. I chanced a brief look backwards to gauge how far I’d jumped.

How was this even possible? There was a wide cross street between the two buildings; I’d sailed over this space like a bird. This railed against my conception of how things simply were, and the observation joined what I’d already encountered that early evening in cementing my realization that there was much more going on than any simple murder plot, live burial, or eye affliction. I leaned stiffly to pick up the Undertaker’s hat in my bloodied hand, tightening my fist on its brim until it started to shake.

“Oh my, dear, are you all right?!” Grell’s voice floated over the noise of clashing metal and the rev of her “beast.” She had ducked away from a swing of the Undertaker’s scythe, and called out to me over the distance before darting to back up William. “No one is good at it so soon after death, but we can’t have your pretty skin getting scarred!”

… _Wait_.

I snapped my head up at Grell’s comment. I could only imagine the expression on my face; I was certain my confusion was clear from across the street.

… _What_?

William had taken a stab at the Undertaker with his pruner before trading places to back up Grell. My reaction hadn’t elicited much of a startle from him, in his unshakeable professionalism, but he sneered, having drawn the inevitable conclusion all the same.

“Reprehensible beyond all belief!” He berated the Undertaker, his face darkening with contempt. “Haven’t you even told her she’s _dead_?”

It felt, momentarily, as if I was listening to a discussion about someone else. Then the disbelief froze into ice, chilling me from within my veins.

 _You still live_ , he’d said.

I only half-heard anything else William had said, as it was the Undertaker’s form my entire being—whatever I was—had locked onto. I saw his body hesitate, his shoulders cringe as if physically struck with my revelation. Slowly, he lifted his head to turn partially towards me; I met one of his eyes, briefly, his yellow-green gaze flaring from under his mussed silver locks. The cold in that glance resonated within me. He had confirmed my worst fear without uttering a word.

 _Wait for me_.

If I went where I’d been told to, if I did what he said, what guarantee was there now that it would turn out well for me? What was happening? Why had he lied? I dropped his hat and my handbag on the masonry, my empty hands hardening into fists. I had so many questions, and I was afraid to find out the answers. The biggest answer of all was one I couldn’t escape no matter how fast I ran, but in that instant, escape was all I knew how to attempt.

I steeled myself, running for the next roof. Again, an improbable flight, and a landing, somewhat improved from the previous one. I barely paused before sprinting for the next ledge, my pace picking up and my fear of my own power diminishing in my search for security.

Finally, I landed on the roof of the building where the chemist’s shop was, my boots crunching down on the gravel. I panted, looking around myself; several chimneys stood hidden in gray shadow and the faint lamplight now filtering up from the street. I walked around the rooftop, investigating the corners around the chimneys and the darkened corners of its ledges. I still heard voices and the clang of metal-on-metal several rooftops away.

I would not wait for him. My strongest compulsion now was to hide. I had bundled up my growing fears of what my reality become, and held them close to myself as I jumped from building to building. The feeling of his lips on mine had cooled but I couldn’t fight off my regret.

What should I do? I looked over the edge of the roof.

I couldn’t.

 _Could_ I?

My body took action before I could consider the question. I grabbed at my skirts again and jumped, but this time I let myself freefall.

 _Easy_ , I urged my body. _Like a feather_. I responded, somehow, gently alighting on the cobblestones of an alleyway, with no more force than if I’d simply hopped in place. I gasped in a breath, thrilled to be reunited with the ground. I looked around for witnesses—thankfully, only a couple of drunk men—before breaking into as swift a run as my corseted lungs would allow.

Where could I go, though? I didn’t know of any acquaintance in London that would receive me, and this was certainly not the part of town I was used to being in. Before long, I found myself skittering down the alley behind the Undertaker’s shop, the only familiar place nearby, and precisely the last place I wanted to be at the moment.

I halted myself before backing up a bit and scrambling behind some planks of wood and a few coffins where they stood, finished samples available to any with immediate need of them. I sobbed, recalling the coffin I’d started out in, one very much like these.

But now what? I tried to concentrate on the places I’d seen nearby in the afternoon. Wasn’t there a church? I was sure I’d seen one a couple streets down; maybe I’d go bang on the door and see if they could let me—

A shadow fell between my hiding place and the cloudy lamplight.

I covered my mouth, a startled cry escaping from my throat. The Undertaker’s hand had reached for my wrist and was urging me out from behind the wood. I saw his eyes glow faintly in the dim light of the street as he peered at me.

“ _DON’T_!”

The volume of my scream surprised me as much as it did him. I batted at his fingers and slipped out of his grasp before ducking under his arm and darting back out into the open. I didn’t get far before I felt him snatch me around the waist from behind.

“Milady—” I wriggled against him, trying to kick at his legs with my boot heels. He growled, picking me up outright and slinging me unceremoniously over his shoulder before stalking around the building to open the door. He carried his abandoned hat and my handbag in the crook of his free arm. “You’re in shock; I’m taking you inside and—ow ow _OW_!”

I’d grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked as hard as I could, shrieking as loud as my recovering throat could manage. He had gotten us over the threshold of the door, but I knocked him off-balance, causing him to all but drop me to the floor of the shop as we tumbled into a heap together. I shook his arms off me the rest of the way and crawled back towards the door, but didn’t get far; he’d lunged over me to slam the door shut and pulled me back against himself.

“ _NO NO NO_!” I wailed, awash in panic, my heart racing my thoughts towards the dreaded unknown. I pushed at his chest with all the power I could muster in my two hands; he took the chance to grab both of my forearms by the wrists and pushed me onto my back on the floor. He loomed over me, eyes boring into mine in a desperate bid to stop my thrashing.

“Your Grace, _please_ —”

_He knew too?! How did they all know who I am?_

I made to jab at him with my knee, but he released one of my wrists to block it. He grunted against my struggling, forcing both of my wrists into one of his hands and yanking them over my head. To my horror, he lowered his weight onto my torso, pinning me and preventing any further attacks on his person. He leaned his face close to mine, using his free hand to brush the tears from my cheek.

“Pretty girl… it’s all right. I owe you a world of apologies and an explanation but…” he softened his features, letting them settle into the warmth I knew. “You’re not going back in the ground, and you’re not going with those two.”

I wailed in response, my reason gone.

 _Dead. I’m dead. Mother and Father and me._ I pulled a hand loose and felt frantically for my heartbeat; I knew it had been there the other day.

It was nowhere. I pressed my palm tight to my sternum. _Gone_.

“ _LIAR!!!_ ” The howl that erupted from me was otherworldly. My freed hand became weaponized, backhanding him across the face.

He let out a small, hurt gasp but was clearly unharmed by my attack. Instead, he took on a look of sorrowful desperation, and grabbed at my wrist to trap it and bring it back to my chest. He pressed my bloody palm back over my ribs, his hand firmly holding it in place.

“Tell your heart to beat.” He spoke firmly, but quietly, his eyes pleading.

“To—” I rasped, unwinding under the pressure of this insanity.

“ _Tell it to beat again_.”

The sharpness in his voice struck me; again, it was not a sound of harshness, but of need. The color of his eyes wavered like a reflection rippling in a pond, and I felt a drop of warmth land on my cheekbone. It ran down along my skin, drawing his prayer along with it. I swallowed.

 _Be alive again_.

No sooner had I thought the words then a thump echoed under my hand, then another. They continued, resuming their steady, familiar pace. I dared not move, lest I undo the miracle I’d somehow brought about. Stunned, I slid my eyes up to meet his.

He smiled, another tear hugging his nose. “I couldn’t stop them bringing that choice upon you, or your body being brought beyond its mortal limits,” he murmured, loosening his grip on my other wrist. “But in the end, I managed to save the part of you that transcends flesh and blood.”

I placed my other hand over the two already warming my heartbeat, still staring him in the eyes. A long silence passed between us before I approached the concept myself, hesitantly.

“I’m dead, but…my _soul_ …?”

He nodded, leaning down to kiss my forehead softly. “It’s alive.” He gently rested his forehead against mine, just as he had in a very different moment that morning. “It always will be, as long as you have the will to protect it and nurture it.”

Mysteries still lingered among us. The death of the man this afternoon—what had happened to his soul? And—

“Are you also…like me?”

He breathed out lightly, warmth tickling my skin. “Yes, we are the same. So are those two who chased us. There are reasons for everything you saw on that rooftop.”

I lay there, quietly contemplative in the wake of the storm that had befallen me. It was not a time for hiding vulnerabilities. Slowly, my heartache overflowed the bounds I had managed to build up against it for so long, and I choked it out in weary sobs.

“I killed that man,” I managed between gasps. “I killed my parents, and others. I killed them all, I—”

He breathed in sharply. “No, no, my angel, it’s not like that at all…”

He rolled to his side, drawing me against him and all but swallowing up my hurt in his arms. There, still on the cold stone of the floor, everything of reality was forgotten. He sought to ease my burden, stroking his fingers in my hair and over my back while clutching my body to himself as if I might evaporate into the chilled, stale air. I realized then that my melancholy and loneliness seemed to have had company in his own heart all this time.

My voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper. “Tell me.”

He nuzzled his face against mine, his hair tickling my neck. “Let’s go in back and see to your wounds first.” He gingerly drew us both off the floor, gathering me up in his arms.

“Tell me, please,” I begged, curling my fingers into his collar. He read the anxiety in my eyes, and nodded, a small smile ghosting over his features.

“As you wish, then.” He moved to carry us both to the rooms in the back of the shop, where bandages and clean clothes awaited.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a pretty, curious little girl, who would grow up to be one of the bravest I’ve ever known.”

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

I apologize for the big emo, but it kind of goes with the territory here.

To be honest, writing—even fanfiction—is something I find therapeutic in balancing out trauma I’ve experienced in my own life. If you find that the feelings depicted here are excessive or otherwise surprising, it’s only due to my own interpretation of the events through the lens of my experiences.

This chapter had to be finished sooner than the others; Chapter Six really ends in the middle of what is a huge turning point in the story, and I wanted to have it all out there without too much of a break in between.

There’s a LOT going on; I tried to do justice to the kind of response most people might have in this situation (can you even imagine how you’d react to the news she had?), but as I said, in the end it’s only limited to my own point of view. I hope it’s not too far off the mark for most people. There will be a bit more discussion of how she ended up where she is, so don’t worry if you’re still wondering about that.

There’s still quite a bit she has to unearth about what U. is actually up to. It’s complicated, just like his situation in the canon appears to be in terms of his motivations.

Questions and comments are always appreciated! Thank you for reading.


	8. Interlude in a public house.

“WillLlllLlliiaAAammmMmm! How COULD you?!”

The wailings of the redheaded reaper easily drew the attention of the patrons milling around the establishment, floating over the buzz of early-evening gatherings and the clatter of tableware. William bristled, albeit almost unnoticeably, and growled at Grell across the table. “Sutcliffe, lower your voice; your whining is making people stare.”

Grell’s cries shrank back down to angry mutterings laced with dramatic sniffles. “I can’t believe that you didn’t only NOT catch me, but actually tried to _dodge out of the way_!”

“How was I to expect that he was going to use you as a projectile? Certainly, even if he did manage to grab you and hurl you at me—shame on you for not being quick enough to avoid that—I certainly wasn’t going to bother with _you_ when the whole thing was his bid to get away.” William tsked as he neatly cut himself a bite of ham. “Of course, shame on me as well for not being able to avoid your legs entirely, or otherwise he might not have been successful.”

Grell leaned her jaw on one fist, her elbow upon the table. “Now you hate my limbs, too,” she moaned.

“You’re being ridiculous. What’s done is done and we need to take this chance to maintain our stamina.” William pushed Grell’s own meal at her across the table. “Eat; you’ll need it for all the extra time we’ll have to put in.”

Grell stabbed a piece of stew meat with her fork. “I have to say, I still empathize with the lady, but she’s starting to be a lot of trouble.” She chewed vindictively, sulking at her plate. “I was looking forward to carriage rides, gossip, and trading gowns, not ruining my nails.”

William sipped at his tea. “I’m not sure what you think our job actually is, Sutcliffe, but she certainly would be as obligated as you are to perform the duties of a reaper, and perhaps even more intensely so in her case.”

“Why? I know headquarters was keen on finding her, but she’d be one of many ladies in her department.”

“That’s just the thing.” William set his cup down on its saucer and steepled his fingers in front of himself. He lowered his voice so that Grell had to strain to hear him. “She’s _one_ female reaper, but worth at least _one hundred_ of them.”

Grell dropped her fork onto the tabletop, a delivery of cut potato interrupted on its way to her open mouth. “Wait…what are you saying? I know who Her Grace is, but how does that make her that skilled?!”

William shook his head. “It doesn’t, really. Nobility has nothing to do with what she’s capable of. However—” He carefully folded his napkin and placed it on the table. “—it has everything to do with how she came to be a reaper.”

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

My apologies for not updating in a while; I haven’t been feeling well and haven’t had the energy to put into writing. I’m hoping this will get me going again, and really, this short detour was needed anyway to fill in some blanks about the last chapter (because I’m not a fan of stories who gloss over how someone got out of some predicament or another).

I do have the next part outlined, but since it will certainly be a longer chapter, please stay tuned while I flesh it out into its final form. Thank you for reading!


	9. The Reaper.

_Don’t do this. You’ll regret it, so don’t do it._

How much have I put her through already…and yet, here she remains, resting in my arms.

I recall her face, her body and her voice, how they contorted, primal, in pain and horror at the revelation thrust upon her earlier. I should have told her. I could have lost her, if she had closed herself off to me and managed to escape out that door.

She isn’t strong enough to shut any doors in my face right now, real or emotional.

And yet…

…isn’t she facing a reality I myself am still struggling against after countless lifetimes? How long did it take me to put up that kind of fight?

I continue to stroke her hair as I wonder. She’s fallen asleep, but I haven’t stopped. I don’t know why it consoles me, when my hands had sought to sooth _her_ into peace.

 _Don’t_.

There is much to tell her. There is a lot to show her, and explain.

There is someone she needs to meet.

But not just yet. Her breath, her heartbeat, precious and prized by me for making their brave return from the brink, are soft against my neck and chest. I read the comfort of my presence in her fingertips, stubbornly engaged with my hair and my shirt collar. I don’t mind her in my bed. For all the kindness I’ve shown her, I’m still not the type to lure anyone this close, not with the darkness that follows me and my clownish display of embracing it. Her compulsion to reach for me is beyond what I expected, as is how much I’ve started to like it. I wanted her to feel dependent on me, but when did the tables turn?

When she finds out her role in the story I have written for her, she will hate me. I know this. And yet, I am starting to wonder: Can I keep her in my plot, or will she write herself out of it?

_Perhaps, it is already too late._

These musings haunt me, quietly, as I concoct rationalizations for all of them. I do so while tightening my arms around her, nestling my face against the warmth of her crown, until I join her in sleep.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

My apologies for the long delay in updating as well as the short chapters. I have been balancing health stuff and work issues (none of it made more fun by this pandemic) while working at this tale, but the longer chunk of backstory I promised is almost finished...I didn’t want to rush through it, since it’s important for establishing our MC.

Please accept this fluffy tidbit as a reconciliation, and please don’t hold me accountable for using multiple points of view to flesh out character depth in my writing. X3 Stay tuned for a longer chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

Trigger warnings:  
Trauma  
Illness and death  
Depression  
Dysfunctional/abusive familial relationships

* * *

Chapter Ten.

Knowing that the details missing from my own perspective of the night’s events were the main source of my uneasiness with my situation, what the Undertaker told me of my own history in that moment was brief, and a story I already knew. As he occupied himself with cleaning my bloodied hands and legs in front of the stove, he recounted what he’d learned of me in a way similar to the way anyone might store the necessary facts on a given topic: My day and place of birth, my family’s hierarchy, the general history of our peerage, all things available as public knowledge.

By the time he was past those initial, benign bits of information and seemingly ready to delve beyond them, I was warm, tucked in bed in my new sleeping gown, the white cotton soft against my bandaged skin. Without my insistence, he had joined me in the bedding, having reclaimed the sleep shirt I had borrowed and drawing my body into its arms. I blinked sleepily at the scarring on his neck and the sensation of his toes curling tenderly against mine, concerns of impropriety firmly overruled by the blessings of peace and security. He kissed my brow, having already pulled my spectacles off my nose and placed them on the table.

“Sleep,” he murmured, pushing my hair back from my cheek. “The rest can wait until you’ve rested.”

“But…I want…” I squeezed the locket at my throat, my other hand clutching at the nearest lock of his hair, a long braid of silver from behind his ear. My nerves had crashed back down to earth from the great height to which they’d been dragged by the day’s events, and my body was not cooperating with my brain’s desire for answers. My eyes fell shut and opened again, determined, until a gentle stroking of my hair claimed my wakefulness entirely.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

I was born, just as he’d said, the first and only child of His Grace, James, the Duke of Chelmsford. He’d married my mother, Anna, the daughter of a village doctor and thus decidedly _not_ following societal expectations for a noble of his stature. She had often come to the great house of Chelmsford with her father when the doctor was required in order to provide assistance and learn at his elbow, although I had no concept of how revolutionary this was until late in my childhood.

James, my father, first encountered her when they were both adolescents, and although he—as the older brother of two—was expected to inherit the title and to marry accordingly, my grandfather could not dissuade him from falling in love with Anna, and passed away before he could convince him to accept a more appropriate wife from the ranks of English nobility. James was still in his late teens when his father died, and although he was of an age and experiences suitable to inherit full responsibility as the new duke, he had not yet reached the point when it was impossible for him to not marry. And so, since neither my grandmother nor his younger brother George had legal say in how my father conducted the business of the title, James went against all the rumblings discouraging the notion and made Anna his wife a few years later.

I remember being cherished as a child, and encouraged to follow in my mother’s footsteps; she had gained considerable prowess as a healer in her own right after training at her father’s side. She, however, did not press her passion for it upon me and instead encouraged me to learn and discover a path I could follow as my own. My father, ever entranced by my mother’s goodness and conviction, had set up a library of medical references for her, among many other tomes, and permitted my use of it as well, both during her lifetime and after her untimely passing.

Many happy afternoons were spent in that library, or in the gardens, or in my room. The setting changed, as did the book in my hand, but volume by volume the words were devoured by me and along with them, the tower of knowledge they represented. Within the grief I struggled against in the years I lived past my mother’s loss, I found myself leaning upon that tower for support and consolation, knowing her memory would sanction it as a way to make something good from something very, very bad.

I knew little of how this appetite contrasted with what was expected of me as the daughter of a noble, but slowly, in the same way each written word built up my mastery of educated thought, the brief but brutal comments of my grandmother and uncle tore their way through my bliss to reach my ears.

_What an unseemly pastime for a young lady.  
Utterly pretentious.  
What good will any of that nonsense do her?  
She’ll be just as big an embarrassment to you as Anna was._

_Who would_ want _such a girl, James?_

I heard the question asked one day, from the next room. It confused me at the time, as of course I knew that my father loved and wanted to keep me. It wasn’t until my early adolescence, when self-consciousness naturally drives a hyper-awareness of one’s advantages and disadvantages in the eyes of others without providing the confidence with which to handle it, that I began to grasp the true meaning of those sharp, poisonous words.

My mother had been fortunate in marriage; my father had had some freedom to select her, without any bloodline to recommend her, and despite the criticism of his family she lived an otherwise comfortable life. However, her time spent continuing her education in the healing arts and applying those skills in caring for tenants of our estate drew disdain from some other members of the peerage for her perceived boldness as a woman, let alone the wife of a duke. On the very thin surface reserved for public scrutiny and an appearance of charity, my parents were respected for their contributions to the well-being of those thought below them in society’s pecking order. The true feelings of their peers lay only just beneath this, manifesting themselves as soft derision or—should drink feed one’s ferocity regarding the subject—fleeting but stark confrontations at some social event or another.

The slow realization of my parents’ true situation brought with it the full feeling of the cruelty of what my family members had said about me. Although I wasn’t sure of my feelings on the idea of marriage by that age, I had begun to notice and deeply internalize how the young men of noble families sneered at me.

Could I have taken an interest in a village boy? Certainly, but then what trouble I would add to my father’s burdens! I longed to find even a little bit of belonging within the circles I was born into, and so—while not quite being able to give up my love of books and learning—I threw myself under the power of my exasperated governess in teaching me all the things a lady of good breeding required. Having had to deal with my resistance to this in the first years after my mother’s death, she had understood the source of my angst, however, and she now happily accepted my compliance with her lessons. I learned the act of what the perfect lady was at the time, speaking softly, thinking small thoughts, and existing only for others. I caged my heart in the pursuit of finding it a berth, and fed it scraps of its former life through my late-night reading while whispering self-assurances that I would be happier this way in the long run.

These were, in fact, better days. I could not know at the time of the cliff edge I stumbled towards, even as the signs—subtle and otherwise—crept out from the shadows to meet me.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

_Cursed_.

The word reverberated within me. Around the time I was struggling with my own self-perception, I began to be plagued by it. It was not directed at me, not at first, but I felt it as an arrow in my heart each time someone thoughtlessly released it into the air.

My mother took all of these jabs with a façade of good humor, but I saw her eyes when the word landed upon her hearing. Even as a young child, I read the pain in her face. I knew it stung.

 _A cursed woman_ , they called her, because death seemed to follow her. She had always cared for the ill and injured living under our tenancy or in our village, but there were very often times when she’d become ill in a way, I recalled, only to rush to the side of a person for whom her treatment had not been requested. In fact, in many of these instances, the individual was healthy, someone who presented no signs whatsoever of being in distress.

Despite this, all of them perished in accidental mishaps not long after my mother reached them. I knew the times when she had been present to witness the incident, for in no other circumstance had I ever seen her return to our home, her shoulders sagging, her body flagging under an unseen weight, and her eyes as cold and hard as obsidian. She would pass me by, resisting my requests for attention, to go to my father, or to lock herself away in her sitting room until time had chipped away at the walls those moments seemed to build up around her heart.

Other times, she had rushed to the side of someone who had fallen ill and had spent time under her care. She flew out the door into the carriage, carrying bundles of remedies she had hastily gathered up from a room in the house kitchens. But no matter what she tried from her collections of herbs, tinctures, or tonics, the result was the same. I soon recognized the patterns of panic cycling in time with hurry and fear, and knew that by the time she’d return to me that another family would be mourning the loss of one of their own.

 _She cursed us_ , they’d say.

She was quiet in the days after these occurrences, murmuring only the most necessary comments softly to us while she squeezed the gold locket around her neck. She had received it from her father, the doctor, and my grandfather. I knew little of his passing—only that it had happened when I was barely walking—and wondered what thoughts moved behind her eyes as she held it against her heart. They were never enough to discourage her for long, and she would eventually return to her books and her treatments.

For all the bad tidings she seemed to bring upon others, there was no doubt she _was_ skilled at what she did, and the people of our lands would still seek her aid. She was better at healing broken bones than our new village doctor, my father would boast. She could easily identify infection before it progressed, and safely delivered infants who threatened to arrive in the world accompanied by myriad complications. Where she got her confidence to face these particular endeavors, as opposed to her worst days on the job, I was not certain.

One of my most vivid memories of my childhood marks the moment when I understood that I was very clearly taking after my mother, although not in habits nor intentions. My grandmother and uncle were visiting one afternoon during the time of day when calls were often paid, and, having brought their usual supply of vitriol with them, they sat drinking my parents’ tea and making subtle jabs at their entire existence. I sat on the floor nearby, looking through an illustrated book of animals, and hoped they’d go home soon.

Then it happened. A tinkling of porcelain caught my attention; a tea cup and saucer had tumbled to the carpet along with its contents. My mother, who had been showing signs of being unwell, had begun to speak to my grandmother, when she suddenly froze, her back stiffening, her eyes wide and fearful. At the same time, I felt a chill rush up my spine, as if a ghost were tickling my skin just as it was grabbing ahold of my shoulders. My ear shivered with the sound of a faint whisper, an unwelcome secret from an unknown source. My eyes wildly flew over the scene as the cold entrapped me; my mother’s hand trembled as it struggled to dip into one of her skirt pockets before drawing out a small book with a tiny pencil. She shakily scribbled something into it, struggling against a barrage of coughing that had overtaken her. Her eyes bulged at what she had written on the tiny page; she dropped the book and pencil onto the carpet with the teacup as she got to her feet.

“James,” she gasped, her voice fighting her lungs to be heard. “Dear, she’s going to—I should get something from my room—” She began to stagger drunkenly towards the door as my father and our relatives processed the scene before them. “I must be quick; please be ready to assist me!”

“My God, what’s wrong with her?” My grandmother chided, disgusted. “She belongs in an asylum, James!”

My father had swiftly put down his tea, a haze of horror and confusion overtaking him. He stood and turned from the direction his wife had gone, to his mother and back again, seemingly unsure of his best course of action. “Anna, what should I—”

“This is nonsense, acting like this to goad your own family to leave!” My uncle was shouting over him. “We’ll take our leave before someone of consequence sees this farce!”

He had snatched my grandmother’s elbow, steering her out the door to our foyer. The feeling of icy whispers had receded from my body, and I saw as they were leaving that my mother had not returned. My father and I trotted behind our visitors, both of us uneasy as a familiar pattern was emerging and taking shape. My grandmother was berating my father all the way to the door, as my uncle pulled her along.

“How dare she try that in front of her family!” she shrieked, my uncle’s intensity upping the ante on her own wrath. “James, we can’t have this; you should divorce her once and for—”

— _All._ My grandmother never got the word out. Instead, her breath caught and she stumbled, grabbing at her chest. My uncle had to stop and turn to understand why she was no longer cooperating; she had slumped down against his back and onto the floor.

The foyer was suddenly silent. My father’s brief sob and his footsteps crossing the polished floor to kneel next to her were all that followed, until the passage of several long seconds brought my mother’s hurried footfalls back in our direction. She appeared, coughing and weeping, a small vial in her fist.

But, as before, in those other terrible instances of loss following my mother’s break into panicked action, there was nothing to be done. My grandmother lay there with her eyes open, silenced forever, my father and uncle quickly overcome with the sudden shift into a reality of sons without their mother. My own mother sank to her knees where she had skidded to a stop. She raised her hand to bring the glass vial down hard upon the floor, smashing it to pieces and splattering whatever hope it had contained over any surface it could reach.

This frustration and raw violence on the part of my mother was not something I had seen. Startled and bewildered by the scene—five-year-old eyes and ears and hearts are not built to reason with this sort of thing, after all—I jumped and turned to run back to the sitting room from whence we had come. I vaguely registered the building commotion in the foyer as servants came upon my family, instead pawing at the carpet below where my mother had sat to snatch up the tiny, abandoned book.

I had never seen what was written in it, although I had caught glimpses of its cover on occasion. I dared myself to open it now, to the last fresh page and the item my mother had just written.

My grandmother’s name, something with the word “heart”, and that day’s date. They were there, scribbled in a desperate, jagged hand, and perfectly mirrored the words whispered in my ear by, seemingly, no one at all.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

Thank you for reading (and waiting)!

I have broken what I have posted into two chapters, as it might be easier to digest a bit less of this heavy stuff in one sitting. There WILL be a third part to this backstory, so you’ll have to wait a smidge for that, but I will leave you with a bit of a tease to tide you over heheheheheh x3


	11. A ghost in the machine.

Trigger warnings:  
Trauma  
Illness and death  
Depression  
Dysfunctional/abusive familial relationships

* * *

_A ghost in the machine._

It was quite some time before we recovered from that day, if we really ever had at all. My mother seemed to be recovering far more slowly from the shock of my grandmother’s death than from other instances of “It” happening. Perhaps it was the sorrow she felt for my father’s broken heart, for he had no chance of finding a compromise with his mother that would please her, and little opportunity to find the same with my uncle, either.

I thought of these things much later, though; during the period of mourning that followed The Incident, I became acutely aware that the coughing fits my mother experienced then had occurred again and again, increasing in frequency until it was apparent that something was wrong. Medicine told me that nothing she had gone through that day had “broken” her, but it had certainly exasperated the tiny cracks we never saw in her constitution until that point. The blood that appeared on her handkerchief was surely the manifestation of the curse that she’d now brought upon her own family, it was said. I was sure that it was more likely my uncle rather than the servants behind the spread of those cruel words.

The spring came, and with it, the expectation that my father be in attendance at the Parliamentary sessions that began around that time. I knew little of “The Season,” as it is called, except that we would spend several of the warmer months of the year in our London mansion. Since we were in mourning for my grandmother, it was not expected that my parents would participate very much in the extensive social events that punctuated this time of year, and it was just as well. My father attended to his political duty as a peer in the House of Lords, hurrying home each day to look in on my mother, who was more and more confined to her room as the days passed. Together, we sorted through the remedies that might make her more comfortable. Neither of us spoke of what we knew: My mother was dying, not of spite or contempt from the assails of others, but of consumption.

The disease was widespread amongst the poorer members of our community, especially in the coldest months, although this had not stopped my mother from continuing her efforts to care for those afflicted by it. Although I was quite young, the prevalence of the illness in that time made it widely-known; my understanding of it was black and white, reflecting my thought patterns. People coughed, and there was blood, and then they went to Heaven. It sounded so straightforward, the way I had arranged it in my burgeoning trough of child knowledge, but watching my own mother move through this process was anything but. It did not help me process the sight of my father’s tears as he sat at her bedside late at night, nor my mother’s hesitancy to let me near her when she was feeling her worst.

One afternoon in July, when the weather was surprisingly sweltering for an English summer, my mother bade me sit with her for a while. I pushed her windows open a bit wider, feeling unsure about approaching her: her face was gaunt and the color gone from her cheeks. After a moment, though, I recognized the light in her eyes as they met mine and invited me closer.

She opened her arms to me where she lay, and I was pleased to feel her closeness for the first time in a while. She talked with me of my studies and of the sheep I’d seen in the market, stroking my hair and arms all the while. Then, suddenly, she released me to roll to the far side of her bed, struck with a wave of coughing that left her digging her fingers into the bedding, as if it took that to keep her clinging to this lifetime.

It was at that moment that it happened.

The horrifying, icy tickle, the chill walking up my back to my ears. The whispers had occasionally come and gone since my encounter with them months ago, but they had been faint and far less consequential, tied to people of my parents’ acquaintance whom I did not know. Now, they came upon me, wickedly sharp and strong, a rain of needles in my soul.

My mother’s small book was by now a grim memorial, a proper list of people she always attempted to save, but never could. Although she had not been able to go out to tend to anyone in quite some time, she had kept it near her on the bedside table. I reached out to it now, taking it—and so much worse—into my own hands. I did not see at first what I’d written with the tiny pencil tucked inside it, but I had definitely heard the message that I’d put upon its pages. The book fell from my fingers onto the bedspread, and I curled up against my mother’s back. The wail that escaped my lungs after my moment of inertia bounced off of the wallpaper and brought the servants running.

My mother, startled by my outburst, had stopped coughing and slowly shifted back to face me. “My dear girl, what—” She saw the book, and her entire body seemed to shift into an expression of regret.

“Oh, my poor child…that you would turn out just like your mother…” She waved the wide-eyed servants away, bidding them to shut the door again before she hugged me with all the strength she could spare. She hung her head briefly before lifting it again with a sigh. “I suppose that since my own ghost will not indulge me, I’ll rely on yours to tell me the ending.” She gingerly plucked the book off the bed and opened it to what I’d written, as my screams diminished to quiet tears at the sound of her voice. Expressionless, she nodded, closed it, and set it down again. “So be it.”

“…Ghost?” I was keenly aware of the raw lack of time left to us, but also made curious by her words. My curiosity was ignorant of appropriate timing, something my father had noted but did not disparage.

“Yes, dear.” She had gently released me to reach to her bedside table and pull something towards her. A glint of gold in her fist shone in the hazy light. I recognized it as the locket she received from my grandfather. “That little voice that you hear…a ghost has come to visit you, you see, or that’s how I’ve always thought of it.” She shakily eased the gold chain over my head, the necklace long enough to not require its unfastening to fit my small body. “A ghost that is here in my body, an unwelcome guest here to visit my soul.” The job done, she held my shaking shoulders, as I peered at the locket, its engraved name—hers—and the tiny photo hidden inside the locket—mine. “But,” she continued, “perhaps this ghost is lonesome, with no mechanism of its own to inhabit and warm itself in. It never brought me welcome news, but likewise, I’ve never given up hope of using it to make something right out of it.”

“A ghost without a house,” I murmured. “It couldn’t survive in the cold, then.”

“Oh, I think perhaps it could, since it never stays long. After all, ghosts are the souls of our departed, and they live on past the limits of the body, remaining to watch over us. The body is but a machine in which we live for a time, dearest.” She gathered me closer, suddenly fearful, as if she could feel the inevitable slowing of her heart and wished to race it to the very end. I heard her voice crack as it bent her fate to its will. “You mustn’t worry…our souls can never truly be parted.”

After that day, my mother’s coughing fits became violent enough that I was not permitted to go back into her room. I wandered outside it instead, the tiny book in one fist and my mother’s locket clutched in the other, anxiety and terror following me as I endured her pain from a distance. I was helpless, left to the sound of her moans and the fevered whispers of the servants who came and went.

 _Please hurry it up_ , I thought. _Get on with it._

I sat leaning against the door one night a week or so later, listening to my father’s muffled sobs slowly grow in intensity. All had gone still within the room, and I hugged my knees, staring at the book as it sat open on the floor next to me. The precise moment I had written in it had just come and gone, along with half of my heart, and I wished then that the words my mother had spoken would turn out to be true.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

Light rain spattered against the glass as I slumped against it. I listlessly watched the proceedings in the courtyard, as the black hearse that would bear my mother’s body to rest stood ready near the entranceway. Our butler was speaking with a man who had arrived with the hearse; I was used to the sight of such men in our time, so his profession was of little interest to me. I noted, however, that he seemed very tall, and had long, light hair that spilled over his back. Something about him struck me as strange, as though being out of sync with all around him.

I watched him as he finished his conversation with the butler, the two parties turning from each other as they resumed their work. It was then that I saw him pause and look sharply up, his face lifting towards the direction of where I sat. I felt a familiar shock of cold along my spine, but it spread to my limbs and sparked at my fingertips. My ears popped and I yelped, covering them. It was then that I saw through the mist and gray that he had locked his eyes on mine, a brief flash of green lightning that painted the inside of my skull.

Briefly, though, and then it was gone, leaving me shaken and staring at him as his mouth spread into a wide smile. He removed his top hat, its trailing black crepe curling in the rain, and leaned into a deep, formal bow before righting himself. Startled—who was that? How did he see me up here, and why did my body react just now?—I scrambled off of the window seat to hide out of view next to its edge. I didn’t want to stay in his view any longer, although curiosity bid me to peer from behind the windowpane to see if he was still there. His grin remained, although it had faded a bit, and he turned back to attend to business while still sparing a glance in my direction every so often.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

Numerous apologies for the darkness of this story. But then, what else did you come for?

(Don’t answer that; I already know.)

There’s a lot going on, none of it being very pleasant, so I’m appreciative of anyone sticking it out. Stay tuned for what should be the final bit of our backstory. Thank you for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter twelve.

Time passed, as it is bidden to do. I gained a governess—not as a substitute for the care my mother would have given me, my father insisted, but because she was needed to keep me protected. As I’ve mentioned, I was not keen on learning the ins and outs of aristocratic life from her at first, but knowledge of these things would serve me as the boat that kept me afloat in the mire of criticism and suspicion that had lost my mother as its target, and now settled upon me. Social warfare among the peerage was not a thing of blunt words, typically, and between my awareness of their expectations and the success my father enjoyed from his estate and his investments, they were little motivated to be the first to strike at me publicly.

My uncle was on a different level entirely. He was still living in the house of his father-in-law, a lord whose daughter—my aunt by marriage, though hardly one in spirit—had given their family the only son in a generation; her own brother had passed away from illness before he could inherit the title. My baby cousin would eventually take it on, but instead of being pleased for his son, my uncle bemoaned the fact that it was only a barony, and that he himself would be left untitled.

If this bothered my father, I was not aware of it at the time. He remained as placid as ever, tending to my needs and those of his tenants. He did not let on that by then, he had already set the wheels in motion on developments that would alter our lives quite thoroughly. He had done so believing in a happy ending for us both. I do not blame him for making this his goal, just as I do not blame him for his actions being our ultimate undoing.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

As I grew older, I had taken on the work my mother had dedicated herself to, looking after the villagers and tenant farmer families in their times of need. So, too, had the “ghosts” grown with me, their whispers louder and more frequent with each year that passed. Their warnings sometimes offered me more time with which to fight against them than in other instances, and I found myself in my mother’s position, hurrying to find the owner of the names they breathed into my ear before they could be taken from us.

Of course, I was never able to save them.

I felt the sting of the words that my mother had suffered, even though—like her—I was still summoned for my skills. I saved many lives, and welcomed as many into the world. I was bolstered by this, and it kept me determined to not give up on the work I was doing to honor my mother and challenge my heart to fight on.

However, I was also quite aware of the situation in which my father found himself: Without a male heir, his title would pass to my uncle upon his death. If I didn’t marry and have a son, the dukedom would be handed over to his brother George, including all of our tenants, the farmers and others who benefitted from my father’s custody of their land. My uncle was less likely to care to invest in the people our estate supported, himself favoring investment in up-and-coming industrial ventures. I, of course, would be simply out in the cold.

My father never spoke of any of this at length to me in the blur of my teenage years, seemingly unwilling to lay the pressure of progeniture upon my shoulders along with everything I had already insisted on carrying. However, I felt the shame of being so useless in that capacity, with boys of my station turning up their nose at me; many nights I cried in private, sorry that my father should have what remained of his heart broken at the thought of his only child being so utterly unwanted. I cared not so much for my own feelings in the end, but for the crime of denying him what should be one of life’s great happinesses. He himself had chosen not to wed again after losing my mother, although I hoped he might. He could still take steps to guarantee himself the son and heir he needed, and I would be free. He showed no inclination to do so, though, and I worried it was as much because he feared appearing to “give up” on me as it was about his love for his first wife.

One night, I was slumped down on a rug in the library, indulging this hurt and letting it pour out from my body in great, graceless sobs. I didn’t hear the door quietly open, nor the footsteps approach my side. My father’s arms were around me then, and my surprise and shame found a strange balance with the comfort of him bearing witness to my hurt, as well as his willingness to face it with me.

_Don’t let me go_ , I thought. _If this warmth is your acceptance of all that I am_ not _as well as what I am, then please keep all of it as close to your heart as possible_. Like my mother’s “ghost”, I had been drifting about, sharing scraps of myself, but not feeling that I quite belonged anywhere.

At length, my father patted my back and indicated that we ought to sit on the sofa. “My knees are not quite as they used to be for me to be sitting on the floor too long,” he chuckled, his way of lightening the mood. Unfortunately, this reminder of his mortality caused my anxiety to flare, and I hid my face behind a hand as my lip trembled, my eyes welling up again.

“Oh dear,” he tsked and wiped my cheek before putting an arm around my shoulders. “I think I see…it’s not so much the talk about town that’s got you, is it?”

I grew desperate, interpreting this as provocation. “If only I could marry and have a son… I’m failing you, and the entire dukedom.” I continued to babble, winding myself up further, until I felt his large hand settle on my hair.

“Dearest,” he spoke softly, tilting his head slightly. “You needn’t pressure yourself like this…the title and all it entails are going to be in very, very good hands.”

“What…?” I sniffled, venturing to peer into his eyes. “You mean my uncle George—”

He shook his head. “No, darling. Not him. _You_.”

“I—” I dropped the handkerchief I’d been clutching, my mouth struggling to form words in response to his. I finally managed to get a few out. “What do you mean? Me? _What_?” I stood up to look at him, my body galvanized into any kind of action it could generate while processing this revelation. “Are you mad?”

I regretted that instantly after saying it, but my father laughed. “I knew you’d react this way. Sit down and let me explain, love.” He grasped my hand, squeezing it and gently pulling me back down to sit beside him. And it was just as well, for what he told me might have knocked me off my feet had I remained standing.

It had begun years before, not long after my mother’s death. He sat with me on the sofa, the firelight casting flickering shadows over his features, and recounted how he had had thoughts not unlike mine regarding the fate of the dukedom, although he was quite clear his concern was not for my failure to marry thus far, nor for his reputation as a husband and father to witches or anything of the sort.

Instead, he had begun to set aside sums of money from the estate’s profits, a little at a time, and forgoing small comforts for himself to do so. I recalled that he had not acquired much in the way of new clothing in past years; we hadn’t entertained or kept as many horses or servants as we had once, either. I had attributed all of this to his wish to simplify things for the two of us, but his explanation threw all of it under a new light.

As it turned out, he explained, the good amount of money he had managed to set aside over these long years went, surprisingly, into the pockets of his fellow members of Parliament. Essentially, he had “bought” the passing of a special act that would amend the Duchy of Chelmsford to pass to the eldest child, rather than to the eldest son, specifically; the act had passed that week. “If the Duke of Marlborough could do it, why not me?” He smiled, patting my hand as I sat, still dumbstruck. “You have far more sense than my brother ever will, and our tenants like you.”

I couldn’t disagree, but I felt a bit daunted. “If…when…it happens, how will I know what to do? How can I take charge of this responsibility myself?”

“You will know.” He lifted his hand to rest it on my shoulder, and I felt its warm weight as a different sort of pressure, one of reassurance, a hand to steady me on my path forward. “You already have all the qualities that demanded I make your mother its mistress; the rest will follow.”

With this dramatic change in my fate, I became painfully aware that it would only truly be set in motion once my father had died. I was caught between the hope of a settled future and the despair necessary for it to come to pass. This double-edged truth sat between us, wedging itself into our midst as my father and I embraced each other. We paid it little mind for the moment, opting instead to share the occasion as the quiet triumph my father had so dearly intended for it to be.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •

The next few days passed uneventfully, although the surreal thought of being addressed as the Duchess of Chelmsford or “Your Grace” followed me about my routine. It would take some getting used to. Far more important to me, however, was making sure I was aware of everything that might be expected of me as the heir of the title. My father had assured me that all would be well, as there wasn’t much that I wasn’t already familiar with among similar tasks he was obligated to fulfill. I remained preoccupied with this anyway, so much so that I failed to notice the surprising lack of reaction to the Parliamentary decision on the part of my uncle.

Late one night, I had just returned from calling upon a sick farmer’s child and was in my room reading by lamplight, when the tinkling shatter of glass startled me into hypervigilance. I was certain that by then our handful of servants were all in their own quarters upstairs, as I’d had to wake the scullery maid to let me back in. Having not yet undressed for the evening, I took up the lamp, hurrying out of the room and down the hall, towards the direction of the sound. It led me to the library, where I heard the voices of several men, none of them familiar save one.

My father’s shouts shot through my nerves like ice melt, the chilling horror only adding speed and vigor to my limbs as I thrust the door open. The first thing I saw was his eyes, and within them a terror I’d never witnessed or thought possible from him.

“No—turn and run, now!” He shouted, before the one man who wasn’t holding him at bay cuffed him across the jaw.

I cried out, as though the impact had fallen upon my own face as well, and dove toward him in a fit of adrenaline that brought my fists upon the men holding him about the arms. There were four of them, dressed in shabby working-class tweed; their calloused hands were blackened and strong as they took my arms into their grip. The furniture in the room was in disarray, books scattered and a great china vase of flowers smashed upon the smoldering hearth.

“Please!” I screamed, hoping to find a compromise with them, however slim the chances. “Just take what you want, and leave! We will not pursue you…you have my word!”

“Darling, I beg you—free yourself and GO!” My father pleaded. “They’re not robbers!”

“Your word, eh,” the man holding me spat. “Her Grace is giving us her _word_.”

They all chuckled darkly, and I froze. My father was right; it wasn’t likely that anyone breaking in to rob us would be doing so to mock my new role as heir apparent. I gave words to the reality made plain before me. “…this is my uncle’s doing, isn’t it?”

It made sense. He had bemoaned the fate of the title ever since my father’s marriage; of course he’d be livid to find out he’d been erased as my father’s heir in favor of a ghost woman’s offspring, and a girl child at that. He had probably hired these men to remove what he perceived as the family’s shame and restore the title’s reputation. A reputation that had nothing to do with his brother, but seemed to rest upon the choices he had made.

I was the living embodiment of that choice, now. The doubts I had felt when I first received the news of the title’s amendment were creeping back in, realized in the tableau of violence and hurt that we found ourselves within. I had been struggling, screaming for my father to be released, fighting against the sight of him worn and bruised from his own efforts to escape. A solution dawned upon me, although no less terrible than the other outcomes that lay before us. However, as the chosen heir for my family’s lands and livelihood, I felt a dawning sense of stewardship for it. I would serve my father and all before me as best I could, before I would ever inherit a single blade of grass or beetle in the earth.

“It’s me, isn’t it? Just take me, then, and leave him be.” I ceased struggling, and managed to lower my voice to a scratchy but even tone, using my best efforts to conceal my desperation.

“Darling, what are you—NO!” My father was lurching against his captors, strength renewed. "You can’t be serious! They’re going to—”

“They are here to kill us both.” Expression and panic that ought to have marked that statement had slid away; I was somehow shielding my heart behind the practical, at least for the moment. I slowly drew my head up and tilted it to the side to look at the man on my right. “…aren’t you?”

He had stopped grinning. “Have you gone daft, girl? What are you getting at?”

I turned from him to address them all. “The problem…is me. My mother and me. It was never about my father, am I right? Only me, when it became apparent that I’d become the heir.” I focused my eyes on the face of another of the men to avoid seeing my father’s reaction, although I vaguely registered the moan of dread that had replaced any words of sense. “Kill me, and leave him. He’s already a fine master of these lands; there’s no sure chance that I could be the same.”

I knew it hurt him to say such things about myself and my background. However, my thoughts were on what I could do for him, for everything, right in this moment. I knew it would be a difficult business to move on from, knowing truly how much he loved me, but I felt that my love was in the best position to protect everything he’d worked for. He could and should marry again, find someone as caring as my mother with nothing to limit her acceptance by others, and have children free of my dark history, who could inherit the title instead.

My father wept openly. “Dearest…please…” His voice trailed off, then, given over to his sobs, and I knew that he understood that I was right: This was the only chance either of us had to appease my uncle.

“Well?” I directed my stare at another of the men, as cold as I could dare it to be. “Take me, sell me off, kill me, do as you will…and leave my father in peace. Will you agree?”

The man who held my father’s right arm appeared to be the ringleader. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, thoughtfully, exchanging glances with the others. Finally, he exhaled. “Have it your way, then.”

He gestured towards me before releasing my father; the other man did the same, permitting my father to rush to me and grasp my shoulders. His fingers clutched at me, moving to my face and cupping my cheeks; he wept silently, his eyes not leaving mine, as though looking for a way to be carried away, secreted away behind my irises. My façade began to crack; my voice wobbled as tears started to wet my own cheeks.

“My right skirt pocket,” I spoke, weakly. He paused to process this before slowly reaching into the pocket hidden in my dress. As the men looked on, he withdrew his hand from it. In his fingers was the tiny book of names that belonged to my mother. He raised his eyes to meet mine.

I smiled at him through my tears. “Mama has been with us all this time, just as she said she would.”

The men appeared to grow impatient, and they began to direct each other out of the room. I was pulled away from my father’s arms. He cried out and reached for me, but I continued to smile. “We have held her spirit near us!” I raised my fading voice so he could hear me. “We never let her go; don’t you let me go, either, Papa!”

He stopped, a moment of stark fear giving way to a brave smile, echoing my own. This was the last time I saw him, before I was dragged from the room and down the hall. I tried shouting to him again, but my voice had diminished to a creak, having fallen prey to my screams. Or had it stayed behind to keep him company? In its stead, I let my heart shout the words.

_Don’t let me go, Papa._

On the last page in the little book were more of The Names. I had added to them where my mother had left off.

_Please…_

My father’s name was not among them.

_…Don’t let me go._

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– •

The English peerage is based in rank and has a long history of male heirs, primarily. Some titles could be passed to women, however; others required some intervention to make it possible. The Duke of Marlborough was a real person; in 1706 he had his title amended in Parliament to allow it to pass to his eldest daughter upon his death after his only son and heir died without children. In that case, the title would have otherwise gone extinct.

Uncle George’s son is heir to a barony; a baron was far outranked by a duke/duchess. The latter are second only to the monarchy in the English system, although today only the duchies of Cornwall and Lancaster remain, the former being the possession and source of income for Prince Charles, and the latter being possessed by the Crown (Queen Elizabeth II).


	13. Chapter 13

!violence/nightmares  
!Not quite NSFW but  
!A bit NSFW?  
!See, I know what you came for.

* * *

Chapter thirteen.

Dark and damp surrounded me. I lay bound and gagged in the back of the wagon, quietly resolved to accept my fate and grateful my father was not there to witness it. The scene continued as I remembered it, although its edges shifted about like a black haze.

“The thought you proposed—selling you—does sound interesting,” said one of the men, sitting cross-legged next to me. “…as does us having a bit of fun with you before shuffling you loose of this mortal coil. However—” He elbowed the man sitting next to him. “that could accidentally get you making your father an heir. Can’t risk you escaping with that even if we do mean to off you.”

They laughed amongst themselves; I shuddered, choosing to ignore whatever imagery they had conjured up in their minds.

Brief blackness then, before my awareness shifted to the inside of a wooden box. I was back in my coffin, and the men were mockingly waving goodbye as they slid the lid into place. “Your uncle’s suggestion for you,” they had grunted as they lifted me into the box. “As slow and horrible as befits demons such as yourself.”

I’d half-heard them. In that instant there came from the base of my spine the dreaded cold, the icicles building up my back and the whispers in my ear.

The whisper I never thought I’d hear while I still lived.

A wave of noise and pain and splinters as the hammering of nails fell upon my ears, joined in unholy symphony with the name I was now desperately trying to scratch into my own skin.

For they’d lied. It was a lie, and my uncle had always been willing to go this far for his revenge.

“PAPA—” I managed one shrill outburst before choking on my sore, dry throat.

The men’s voices were slightly muffled from outside the box, but their amusement was clear. “Oh, so you CAN tell when it happens, eh? Too bad you didn’t know earlier that we had a couple of gents staying back to finish the job for us while we buried you. Poor timing, Your Grace, but you won’t need to think of that in Hell.”

Another shift, and the familiar crash of dirt from overhead. They had used straps to lower me into the grave they had already prepared. I scratched at the lid, weeping. My title and my father’s last smile was all that was left to me, the memory of it slowly fading with my consciousness.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

Then, suddenly, the scene changed.

Blurry shapes bathed in gray daylight, the faraway calls of people in the streets outside. I stared at the room, the visions behind my eyes slowly fading as I recalled where I was. My pulse and breathing were receding back from the rampage my dreams had sent them on; I felt heat, a light layer of perspiration having settled on my forehead. I ducked my chin a bit, shifting my arm under the coverlet to wipe at it with the back of my bandaged hand, when I became conscious of the pressing of a warm snugness against my back.

At that moment, the snugness stirred lightly, squeezing my ribs where he had slung one arm over them. A sigh of warm breath brushed over the back of my neck, accompanied by a soft, deep murmur behind my rapidly-reddening ears. I covered my mouth with my palm to stifle my squeak. As the quiet seconds passed, I was increasingly aware of his torso curled firmly against my own curves, his knees tucked against the back of mine. My past medical reading—I thought I was prepared for this in approaching it practically—served only to inconveniently solve any mysteries among the sensations of his physical presence. 

My heart had only been allowed a brief respite; it was racing again now, as I reconciled myself with what had happened. I recalled having company when I fell asleep, but it was the business of soothing my fears and fatigue, as one would a frightened child. I was not unlike a newborn to my current state, after all.

However.

My face burned, recalling yesterday’s kiss. No, kisses…the shock of what had occurred after all of that had obscured those memories temporarily, but they returned, marching proudly back out into the bright light of day. I had been warned by my governess, tirelessly, of the things men do to gain a lady’s good favor without necessarily meaning to treat her honorably. I wasn’t sure if this was one of those situations which might send her chasing after them with a fire poker, as she had often threatened, but…the rules of nobility didn’t really seem to have a place in the here and now. How much could I count on what I knew, except to stick to my wits and see how things played out…?

For all his physical closeness, I had not been able to see him since waking. Now quite flustered, I wiggled a little, trying to give myself room to move. He relented, slightly, and I struggled to turn my body towards him, his arm still cinched around my waist. Completing about half of the rotation, I made it to my back before giving up on my mission. At least I could see him now; this played a considerable part in my surrender.

He was out, his pale face half-hidden by his mussed silver locks. His cheek was slightly pinked with warmth and sleep, and my eyes became fixed on his lips, gently parted in relaxation as he breathed over the pillow. His pale brow was unassuming, slackened and free of the expression of his waking moments. Silvery lashes rested on his cheek, the chartreuse I had come to know shielded from the world as it dreamed. When I caught myself, I had already lifted my hand to run my fingertip along the shell of his ear.

I reined in my hand, silently chastising it. “…hey. Wake up.” I kept my voice low so as to not startle him.

I probably should have done so, as the effect was not what I expected: Seemingly in response to my touch and my words, he muttered again and began a course of movement that brought his hand from my waist to my shoulder. Eyes still closed, he dragged his face off the pillow and—with a mix of consternation and butterflies on my part—onto my chest. I tensed as he nuzzled his face under my jaw, feeling him land light kisses against my throat before settling again with a contented sigh. His hair tickled my face, its faint scent of fragrant oil mixed with something undefinably masculine. It smelled incredible.

A flash of what I would have denied as being longing thrilled over my skin, and I shoved it to the back burner to deal with what was becoming an increasingly comedic situation (or so it would likely appear to anyone but me in that moment). The only course of action, it seemed, was to follow The Way of the Fire Poker, and administer the next best thing: A smack upside the head. I was steeling myself to follow through on this masterful plan when I registered a faint pull on my roots.

I looked down to where his hand had rested against my shoulder. My heart skipped as I realized what I’d felt: He had woven his fingers into my hair and now clutched at a fistful of it, squeezing tightly, in a way not unlike my own newly-acquired habit of seeking solace in the feeling of his hair in my hand. Peering back at his face, I noticed a slight change in his features; his mouth had tightened and his jaw had become set, his brows drawn together in an expression of anxiety. I bit my lip, moved and conflicted at once. Seeing a mix of emotions in him which I found familiar, I responded in kind, lifting my hand to gently stroke my palm over his head.

After a long moment, I was relieved to see and feel him relax against me. Feeling a rush of magnanimity, I let my fingers drift to brush over his back and—regrettably, dear reader—dipped them gently under the loosened neckline of his sleeping shirt. I was processing the feel of that knot of bone where the cervical spine of the neck meets the shoulders, pressing my fingertips against it, when I noticed the tension return somewhat to his limbs. To my alarm, I felt him release my hair, his hand instead sliding down my side to my hip, and off on a jaunt to Lord only knew where. He was pressing closer; the faint moan that I felt against my collarbone gave me goosebumps.

This was the last straw, though. More so from battling my own unraveling impulses than from fear, I frantically allowed adrenaline and my governess’ wisdom to take over. I jolted against him, freeing my other arm and shoving at his lascivious dead weight. My palms stung, their wounds protesting against the pressure.

“You great clod!” I shrieked in desperation, hiding my more instinctual reactions to force him awake. “Wake up, already!” I buffeted his person with my fists until finally, his eyelids fluttered and he reached to grab my wrists, stopping their onslaught with a groan.

“Pretty, what—oh.” he paused, taking me in. My disheveled form was still stuck half under him, and I was afraid to know exactly what state my nightgown was in, it having not been designed for fits of flailing limbs. I’m sure my face told him enough on its own; he quickly released me and sat up, pulling his own shirt back up over one bared shoulder. “I think…I thought I was dreaming. Er, not that it was like _that_ , but—” He turned to swing his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his scalp as he faltered. “I’m sorry my dear; that was unchivalrous of me. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I pulled the covers up about myself. I felt bashful when faced with his full comprehension of what had occurred, along with the whisper of regret at having not tried to find out what he might have done next. I attempted to cover both moods with a threat. “Next time, though, you’re getting the fire poker.”

He looked at me, wide-eyed with confusion and concern. “Fire poker?”

“Never mind.” I reached for my spectacles and attempted to smooth my hair. Reality was settling back down on my shoulders, and I saw glimpses of the night before flash through my mind. “In any event, you owe me an explanation of another kind, don’t you?”

He grinned in response, likely relieved to have the subject changed. “So I do.” He threw a robe over his shoulders and stood. “I’ll go wash and dress, and we’ll need breakfast…” He numerated these tasks off on his fingers, beginning to move towards the door. He looked a bit absentminded, though, and I wondered what he was thinking in addition to anything concerning this to-do list.

“Undertaker.” I spoke sharply. _Don’t hide anything from me, please._

He stopped in his tracks, snapping his face back to lock eyes with me. After a few beats, he smiled gently and came closer again, reaching out to brush my cheek with his fingers.

“Be it tea or the moon, it matters not to me, my angel.” He tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear before fetching me my own robe. “If you desire it, I shall make it yours.”  
  


• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

And we’re back. I needed to have some self-indulgence while writing this backstory, because it’s no exaggeration to say that I really did have a nightmare about my own Dad while working on it. Anxiety—real world, unshakable anxieties—they are a bitch, folks.

So the fluffier bit here was actually written somewhere between chapters 11 and 12. It does serve a purpose, as we need to move on to where Mr. U. can fill in the blanks for us and scoot us along towards things new and exciting (I’ll leave the interpretation of “exciting” up to you… insert Lenny face).

Please let me know what you think. I’m happy to receive any kind of feedback that might improve my writing.

Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

I heard the boiler growling in the bathroom as I poked around the meager kitchen for tea. I found a tin of loose leaves—was this the Darjeeling from before?—while I listened to the sound of water filling the tub. He might be a bit if he was planning on having a bath, I thought. I found a pair of mismatched teacups and saucers, and measured tea leaves into the pot. There were a few kettles around, so I’d filled one and let it heat up on the stove; the Undertaker had stoked the embers and added some wood before, so that it was warming the room nicely by now. While waiting for the water to boil, I peeked inside a black jar among the tea things on the counter.

…Bones? In shape alone, I surmised, as the buttery shortbread scent wafted to my nose.

I was nibbling one when I heard the water turn off. I was pouring boiling water into the tea pot, the bone cookie half in my mouth (for who was there to see me?) when the bathroom door opened, and the Undertaker emerged from a cloud of steam.

(Ah, of course, this is who would see me.)

He chuckled at my faceful of buttery treasure. To my surprise, he was already dressed in his black pants and white shirt; the damp strands of hair around his face were a clue that he had at least performed the perfunctory wash-up. He lightly rubbed behind his ears with a towel, drying what his long locks had taken in while he’d scrubbed his neck. I noticed that he was barefoot, his toenails inked black to match the talons at his fingertips.

“Oh, you’ve made tea, how kind.” He let his towel rest around his shoulders, and one palm atop my head. “Come along and we’ll bring it with us; I’ve filled the bath for you.”

I swallowed my cookie. “I thought you were filling it for yourself…?”

“Oh, I took a basin of the water as it was filling and did my wash while it was going. I had a proper bath the other day, and I’m sure after last night, your muscles could benefit from the heat. Or…have they gone back to cold water being the supposed tonic?” He tilted his silvery head in thought, a black claw posed to his mouth.

I shook my head. “I can’t keep track of what they believe anymore.” I had always thought the guidance of “professionals” to use cold water for therapeutic and hygiene purposes had to be rubbish, for what body could feel anything but the harshest of chills in response to bathing in ice-melt? However, the temperature of this particular bath was not of concern.

The issue, really, was…hadn’t I just woken up in a precarious position with this man? To bring the tea along for “us” suggested he intended to be present while I bathed. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time, and I knew he had seen humans at their most vulnerable as a matter of daily course. I longed to get down to our promised discussion; would that hinge on my agreement to this?

He frowned, watching my expression cloud over. “Are you worried I might try something? –oh, one moment!” He turned to dig around next to the small stock of firewood, before standing up with a look of triumph and a length of black iron in his hand. “Fire poker!” He giggled madly, and I couldn’t help snorting at the gesture.

“How thoughtful of you, gifting me the right to commit violence against you in the middle of a nice, hot soak.” I took it from him, pretending to wield it like a sword.

He had cackled loudly before suddenly turning silent, a look of faint inspiration passing over his features before he shook his head. The grin returned, and I briefly questioned the quality of sight my spectacles were capable of, even as everything appeared crystal clear through their tinted lenses.

“Well then,” he poured the tea out into the cups and lifted them, drifting back towards the bathroom. “Come along, love, and bring your weapon. This would be as good a time as any to make good on my promised explanation.”

 _Bribery_. But for all my hesitancy, I had no one else to trust, and he hadn’t truly hurt me. On the contrary, shouldn’t someone who pulled me out of my grave receive at least a little benefit of the doubt?

I followed him, then, carrying my “sword” off to battle.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

“I can do this myself, though,” I protested, wishing I hadn’t left the fire poker leaning on the door frame.

Once he had undone my bandages and inspected my wounds to his satisfaction, the Undertaker had insisted on undoing the tie of my robe and pulling it off my shoulders; he had cuffed his sleeves and was now poised to unbutton the pearls that closed the bodice of my sleeping gown. “Well, yes…I suppose you can,” he murmured, freeing one pearl from its buttonhole.

I was hyperconscious of his closeness as he tilted his face down to his work; his unruly locks partially hid his eyes from my view but I saw his lips purse slightly before he continued. “But won’t you let me? In turn, I’ll tell you my secret about ‘why’.” He did lift his eyes to meet mine then, deep green spokes visible within the brighter green of his irises, as he added a mysterious smile and further complicated my feelings about the whole thing.

“I—oh, all right, but first…out with it!” I stammered, my face as fierce as I could make it as I blocked my buttons with my palm. My gold locket bumped against my knuckle, and I fleetingly wondered what kind of scolding my mother would give me right now if she could.

He laughed, withdrawing his hands from my front to gently cup my face in them. “You see,” he began, a bit sheepishly. “Whenever I do this sort of thing for someone, they don’t react.”

I was caught in his gaze, literally and figuratively. “…the departed, you mean.”

“Just so.” The pad of one thumb gently stroked along my cheekbone. “I have always given them my utmost care, but they could never thank me, or chastise me, or anything in between, of course. You, however—” He slid his hands back and into my hair, continuing to talk while he gently twisted my hair up and fixed it in place with a few runaway pins I still carried in yesterday’s hairstyle. “When you’re comforted, when you’re soothed, when you draw pleasure from what I can give you…I can read it in your face and the way your body reacts.” He finished with my hair, letting his knuckles brush over my bare shoulder, and my heart added several extra beats to acknowledge the sensation.

“Seeing how you feel when I’m taking care of you like this,” he murmured, his voice quieting a little as he ran a fingertip under one of my gown’s cotton straps. “I’m so happy; maybe everyone I’ve had in my charge actually felt as happy as you seem, even if they couldn’t tell me.” He withdrew a step, as if concluding his case. He peered into my face, looking a bit troubled by my potential reaction to his words. “Is that strange?”

I thought then of patients I’d treated. Often, the most telling thing was how they smiled at me when their pain had eased, or their tears in the face of an injury. I’d never thought twice about being without the conversations I’d had with them, the meaning that passed between us without so much as a word spoken. I was glad to think of that now, to realize its importance before I’d disappeared from the world without ever appreciating it. I stepped forward to meet him and pressed my palm to his cheek.

“No,” I whispered to him. “It’s not strange.” I was sure that the smile I wore, too, was speaking words of reassurance beyond what I’d uttered.

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

As I thought of it, I couldn’t recall if I’d ever had a cup of tea while in the bath. It was enjoyable, but brief, as the arrival of soap would imperil the safety of the brew were any suds to make their way in, and I was sure that my insides would be just as fine without such a cleanse, as they had been in life.

In the end, I had allowed him to resume his attentions, and was relieved to find him gentlemanly in the process. He gently undid the clasp of my locket, setting it upon a small wooden bench along with my robe. I was moving, automatically, to attend to my buttons, but he reached around from behind to shoo my fingers aside and undo them himself. I checked my heart as he finished and pulled the fabric over my head; he turned to put it right side-out and drape it over my robe. “In you go, Your Grace,” he spoke, his back tactfully to me until I could settle myself, presumably.

I thought back over the mention of my title, fleetingly, as I sat in the warm, rose-scented bath, my knees drawn up with my arms around them. I rested my chin on my legs, eyes heavy-lidded with warmth as the Undertaker lightly drew water and soap over my back with a cloth. “Lovely, isn’t it?” He smiled, lightly scrubbing the nape of my neck. “In the Far East, they enjoy this as a relaxation; what a waste it is, to be so discouraged here.”

I found myself in agreement. The heat did indeed loosen and relax my muscles, even if they seemed to be a bit less affected by last night’s exertions than I had assumed they would be. Even my scrapes seemed as though they’d been already healing a week or more, rather than mere hours. My body appeared the same, with the exception of my eye color, but there were definitely changes that had taken place.

I tipped my head to rest it upon my cheek instead, sliding my eyes over to the Undertaker. He was sitting on an overturned basin at the tub’s side, adding a little more rose oil to the cloth before swirling it in the bathwater to disperse it.

“…will you not tell me what it is I have become? What… _we_ are?” I ventured, my voice softened by the steam.

His smile remained steady as his eyes briefly darted to meet mine. They returned to my nearer shoulder as he worked the cloth over it. “My dear, I’m afraid you might find this even more alarming in the wake of what you’ve been through, but…are you acquainted with the concept of the Grim Reaper?”

I picked up my head to look at him, startled. The imagery of last night, the great glowing scythe he had wielded, the flare of terror I’d felt in the moment. “Are you saying…that scythe—are _you_ —”

“Am I? I suppose for lack of a better classification for myself at this point in time, yes, yes, I am.” He took up my near arm from my knees and clasped my hand, his thumb over my knuckles. “But then, my dear, so are those two you met, quite a few others and,” he released my hand, stroking his fingers over my arm. “…you as well.”

“You—I’m—a Grim—” I babbled, the picture of the legendary personage of death flashing through my mind. The scythe was there, but only the Undertaker’s was as folklore dictated, and none of them wore black hoods over skeletal faces. I felt a bit dizzy, then, and put my face on my knees, digging my fingers into my hair with a brief splash of my elbows in the water.

As quickly as I had slumped, I felt arms wrap around my forearms and shoulders, pulling me upright and back in the tub. “Oh dear,” I heard him murmur in a deep but soft voice next to my ear. “Maybe I should have waited until you weren’t as likely to be affected by the heat.”

I processed, slowly, my eyes hyper focused on a scar on his forearm while I compared my history with what I knew of legend. “So I have been killing people all along, because I’m…as you say.”

“A Grim Reaper does _not_ kill people as part of being a Grim Reaper,” he whispered, his breath tickling my neck. “Or, well…they’re not _supposed_ to. I do not speak of you just now; you haven’t killed anyone, as I’ve said. …Let me help you for a moment, so that you don’t actually faint on me.”

My vision had gone a bit dark at the edges, and I felt him ease me up onto my feet in the water before snatching a large white sheet from the bathing stand next to him. Carefully, he wrapped it around me before lifting me out and seating me in his lap on the bath tile. “All right, love?” He brushed some of my hair back from my face to peer at me before handing me his own unfinished tea to sip at.

I took it, drinking it in one go before handing it back. I rested my spinning head against his shoulder, a bit perturbed that I could heal so much more quickly but not resist a bout of heatstroke.

He seemed to read my thoughts. “You might be getting stronger but the process takes a while; you will need time to adjust. We still need to keep ourselves fed, watered, and rested in this existence as well.”

“So I was a Grim Reaper…that explains some things, even if I didn’t actually hurt anyone.” I was trying to put the pieces together; however, he was quick to send me back to square one.

“You did not become a reaper until you…that is, all of us became reapers because we took our own lives.”

I gasped in a breath, choking on a bit of my own saliva as it was drawn into my lungs by shock. I looked up at his face to see him smiling sadly back at mine. “You…that was how you—but why?” I clutched the edge of my sheet as my other hand went to his hair. I wasn’t sure if I was only trying to console him, or both of us, as I shifted to movement and wordlessness.

He rested his palm over mine, accepting my gesture with reciprocation, and guided my hand to his cheek. “You seem to find it more important to worry for me than for yourself.” I couldn’t tell him to his face that he didn’t appear to be complaining. We regarded each other in this way for a moment before I moved the original discussion forward.

“…it’s souls, then,” I muttered. I reached my arms around his neck, suddenly chilled. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the warmth of the bath fading or from the thought of what I’d become. He wrapped himself around me in return and rubbed the sheet over my back to generate some heat.

“Yes, reapers collect souls. They judge lives and take souls, according to a schedule. It’s punishment, you see, for dishonoring life itself.”

I sat back to stare at him, my nails digging at his shoulders. He gazed at me, not quite as perplexed, as if anticipating my conclusion.

_A schedule?_

_For…_ death _?_

When my voice returned, I struggled to keep it even. “People’s deaths are preordained?” I had started to shake, my body heedless of my attempts to remain calm when up against an idea that was terribly, horribly familiar.

He frowned, rubbing his hands over my arms. “It’s unpleasant, isn’t it? I, for my part, am ‘retired,’ which is one reason why those two others are after us, but even in my working years, I was thankful that that particular job had never been my own. But you may have guessed, pretty—” he lifted my chin to meet my eyes, his voice plunging in warning. “—that’s exactly why they’re after _you_.”

“How do you know all this…?” I furrowed my brow, looking for answers in his face despite knowing he was doling them out in doses I could stand. “You know about my family, my inheriting my father’s title, but also about my curse…? You knew I’d been taken away, that they’d be after me. _How_?”

The Undertaker was pulling me to my feet and layering my robe over the dampened bath sheet. He had ducked his head, as if preparing himself for the impact his answer would have on my heart, before he looked up at me from under lashes of feather and snow.

“Dear girl, you don’t remember, do you? We met the day I buried your mother.”

  
• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • 

As you can read, I am starting to delve into the lore and mythology of Kuroshitsuji’s reapers for the purposes of this story. Please note that I’m getting into some theorizing of my own, and that not everything I’m writing about reaper jobs is canon in the manga so far (as of February 2021, that is).

In Victorian times, there were many people—usually but not always male people, with or without actual medical education of any sort—who often dictated what “Good and wholesome” living was and how it manifested in the daily routines of the citizenry. “Experts” often advised against hot and cold baths as being unhealthy, and in favor of lukewarm ones…but only once or twice a month. People didn’t often take full baths, opting instead for a quick daily wash, as the idea of being nAkEd to bathe went against the Victorian ideal of virtuousness (whatever that truly meant at the time). Fortunately—for us and for the fluff in this fic—we’ve moved on from Victorian bathing habits. Hurrah!

Thank you for reading!


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